Rhapsody In Blue Murder
by miknnik
Summary: A late night trip to a seedy bar lands Rick and A.J. in hot water.
1. Chapter 1

The jarring, insistent ringing of the telephone roused A.J. Simon from slumber. As he reached for the phone, he glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand—it was past midnight. Early-morning calls were always unsettling, and this time was no exception.

"Hello?" mumbled he into the mouthpiece, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Hey, A.J. It's me." It was his brother, Rick. "I didn't wake you up, did I?" He practically had to shout not to be drowned out by the din around him.

Judging by the background noise, he was calling from a bar, a real rowdy one at that.

A.J. was certain Rick knew he had been asleep and was getting mad. "Whatever it is, the answer is no."

A.J. was about to hang up the phone when his brother's panicky voice stopped him. "Oh, hey! Don't hang up! I really need your help."

Still half asleep, A.J. asked from force of habit, "What now?"

"Uh… I'm kinda stranded here. My Power Wagon needs a jump start."

A.J. was getting more alert and angrier. "Rick, I'm your brother through no fault of my own, business partner by choice, but I'm not your personal roadside service. Didn't I remind you that your pickup might need maintenance services a couple of weeks ago? And why don't you call a cab instead of me?"

Rick carefully reined in his temper trying not to get snippy with A.J. "I am going to take it to the shop this weekend. Honest. And I'd call a cab if I could, but I don't have enough money for the cab fare—this place's clear across town."

A.J. groaned. Sleep had deserted him by then.

"Come on, A.J. Just remember how many times I gave you a ride when you were late for your paper route or missed your school bus before you got your drivers license. Or, when you were…"

"All right, all right!" Rick was an expert on guilt-tripping his younger brother. "Give me the name and the address of the bar."

A.J. was receiving the driving direction from Rick when he heard him say, "Hey, do you mind? I'm still on the phone, pal."

There was another male voice in the background, but A.J. could not make out most of what he was saying. Whoever this guy was, he was definitely not a happy camper.

To his dismay, A.J. heard Rick exchange testy words that were followed by scuffling sounds.

"Rick? Rick?" Alarmed by what he thought was taking place, A.J. shouted, but after a few moments, someone slammed the pay phone receiver back on the hook.

He stared at the phone receiver for a couple of seconds then placed it back on its cradle with a sigh. He got out of bed and started putting on street clothes in a hurry while wondering if Rick would stay out of trouble long enough to leave the bar in one piece.

A bar called Blue Moon was located smack-dab in the middle of a rough neighborhood, and its exterior matched with its surrounding buildings in various stages of deterioration and neglect.

As he pulled into the parking lot, A.J. scanned the area hoping to find Rick waiting by his pickup. No such luck. He actually would have to step inside to look for him.

_Of all the bars and taverns in San Diego, Rick had to pick this one—naturally_, bemoaned A.J. The bar looked like a hub for all sorts of criminal activities. Rick was a two-tour Vietnam vet who had no need to hang around with tough crowds to prove his manhood, but no one could psychoanalyze who Rick Simon was in a most logical way.

A.J. plodded across the parking lot, keeping a wary eye out for any suspicious individual or activity. As he neared the entrance of the bar, someone darted out of the dark alley between the bar and the condemned building on the left. A.J. jumped back to avoid a collision, but the other man tripped and pitched forward. He instinctively reached out and grabbed A.J.'s arms to break his fall. A.J.'s hands also shot out reflexly to keep the other man upright. Their eyes met for a brief second when they made physical contact. Then the stranger, who was gaunt—almost emaciated—with sallow complexion exhibiting many signs of a junkie, broke free and ran away like the devil was after him.

A.J. could not help but check on his valuables: wallet, keys, watch... Realizing that nothing was missing, he felt a little ashamed for judging a total stranger by his appearance.

As A.J. was about to enter the bar, the batwing doors burst open and out came a man who was built like a pro linebacker in full protective gear. This time, the two men could not avoid a head-on collision.

A.J. went down hard like he had been tackled, but the other man merely took a few backward steps to absorb the impact. When A.J. looked up, the linebacker was already running towards the parking lot. Just before he got in his car, the big man took a backward glance and glared at A.J. _He must be pursuing the man from the alley_, A.J. assumed. No wonder the smaller of the two had been in such a hurry to hightail. He was just grateful that it was not him the big guy was after.

When A.J. entered Blue Moon, he was acutely aware that he was out of his element. Although he was dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, he still felt way too overdressed like showing up at a luau in a tux.

He hurriedly walked up to the counter ignoring the men and some women seated around him who were gawking at the new arrival. The barkeep eyed him suspiciously as if he were an undercover vice cop. "What do you want?" He was as friendly as a mugger.  
>"Hi, I'm looking for my..."<p>

"Do you want a drink or not?"

The bartender's tone gave A.J. no choice.

"Uh… Give me a beer."

A.J. didn't touch the glass of draft beer the bartender had set on the counter and tried to pick up where he had left off. "As I was saying, I'm looking for my brother…"

"Well, hello, sweetheart."

A.J. turned to the sound of a raspy, sneering voice and cringed. The voice belonged to a biker, a _large,_ unkempt biker with heavily tattooed arms and a crooked nose that had been broken once or twice before.

"You looking for a tall, skinny guy with a mustache?" The biker grinned at A.J. showing his gapped front teeth.

"Yes." _This is not good._

"With a cowboy hat and boots? Responds to the name, Rick Simon?" The biker's grin became wider.

"Yes." A.J.'s voice became smaller.

"Funny. He said his brother was comin' to pick him up but didn't say nuthin' 'bout no sister."

Like any man, A.J. became incensed whenever his masculinity was questioned, but his instinct for self-preservation was much stronger than his self-esteem. He gritted his teeth. "Listen, fella. I don't have a bone to pick with you. I just want to know where my brother is."

"Oh, I bet you do, sweetie pie," said the biker mockingly. "I'll personally show you where he is."

The biker was deceptively nimble and grabbed A.J. by his collar and belt from behind before he could react. He half-dragged, half-carried him toward the backdoor while the other bar patrons around them clapped and cheered on in appreciation of this unexpected live entertainment.

The backdoor led to the dark alley A.J. had passed by before entering Blue Moon. There were two more bikers standing by the bar's dumpster. They were similarly clothed in tattered jeans and a denim jacket with sleeves torn off worn over the bare torso.

"Hey, look. This cream puff says he's a Simon, too." The first biker with a crooked nose proudly presented A.J. to his cohorts like a hunting dog with a bird in its mouth.

"Um…I thought you were going to show me where my brother is," said A.J. hesitantly.

"Oh, you will see him in no time." The biker told A.J. tauntingly then said to the other bikers with a nod, "Hey, take it from here, guys."

The two bikers, who had been guarding the dumpster, gripped A.J.'s arms and legs. They lifted him off the ground and started swinging him like a pendulum until they achieved enough momentum they desired. Then they let go of him to send him airborne.

A.J.'s body cleared the top of the dumpster and landed on the heap of garbage bags—and Rick, who was lying flat on his back in the middle of the dumpster. As his brother's arm hit the midriff, Rick grunted in surprise and sat up. He mumbled something unintelligible, his hands clenched in fists. Then his eyes cleared.

"A.J.?"

The brothers heard the bikers laughing as they were walking back to the backdoor. Slowly, A.J. stuck his head out of the dumpster but quickly ducked back down in order to avoid a beer bottle hurtling toward his head.

"Stay down! And don't ever come back here!" One of them yelled as they returned to the bar.

"What the hell did you do to make them so mad?" Rick asked A.J.

A.J. stared his brother in disbelief. "What did I do? _What did I do?_" He whispered harshly before exploding in frustration and anger. "Acknowledging that you're my brother, that's what!"

"Oh…"

"Oh? _Oh?_ Is that all you have to say? What you do in your spare time is your business, but if you wanna pick a fight with some unsavory character, don't drag me into it!"

"Hey, I didn't drag you into this; I was only defending your reputation."

"_What_?"  
>"Me and those three guys were doing just fine till I mentioned that you were coming to pick me up."<p>

A.J. shook his head in confusion. "But I heard you fighting with them over the phone."

"No, no. That's someone else, some drunk who bumped into me and started a fight. The biker dudes threw him out before the things got ugly. So, I bought them a round of beer while waiting for you to get here."

At this point, A.J. was thoroughly lost and stopped speculating. "Okay then. Where did I come into the picture?"

"After half an hour or so, I casually mentioned that I should leave and wait for you in the parking lot."

"And they got mad?" asked A.J. incredulously.

"No. They just told me to wait inside and let you come in to look for me. So I said, no, you wouldn't like that, and they said why."

A.J. kept staring at Rick without a word and let him continue his narrative.

"So, I told them this isn't the kind of place you'd want to set foot in."

_At least you got that part right_, thought A.J.

"That's when the bikers got real mad saying things like, 'what's wrong with our bar?'"

"_Their_ bar?" It was hard for A.J. to imagine anyone could take pride in a dilapidated place like Blue Moon.

"Sure. They felt you were insulting their favorite bar. And they started shoving me around, calling you names, and that's putting it mildly. Man, I thought I'd heard every expletive there is while I was in the Corps, but I learned something new tonight…"

"_I _insulted their favorite bar?" Only his brother could drag someone who was physically miles away into trouble with him, lamented A.J.

"You okay?" asked Rick placing his hand on his brother's shoulder.

A.J. shot a glare at his brother. "Of course not! I'm madder than hell!"

Even when he was ranting, A.J. looked as lethal as a pissed-off squirrel chattering in a tree, which could be a curse or a blessing depending on how you looked at it; while it might not boost his male ego, in a fight, his opponent would get a painful surprise if he let his guard down because he looked so mild-mannered and milquetoasty.

Rick didn't realize he was smiling at his brother until A.J. said to him curtly, "What are you grinning at?"

"Oh, I'm just glad that you're okay—physically." It wasn't entirely untrue. "Come on. Let's get outa here unless you wanna stay here for dumpster-diving."

A.J. hazarded a peek again to make sure the coast was clear before they attempted to leave the dumpster and its stench behind.

Eventually, A.J. brought his car and parked it right next to Rick's Power Wagon. While Rick was looking for a jumper cable in the toolbox, A.J. popped the hoods of their vehicles. As he was raising the Power Wagon's hood, he heard someone speak with a cockney accent, "All right, mate?"

A.J. turned around and saw a short man in his fifties or early sixties smiling amiably at him for a change. Judging by the smell on his breath, the Brit had a good reason to be blissful.

"Do you want me to 'ave a butcher's?"

"Oh, um, no thank you. It just needs a jump start, but thank you for asking."

Rick heard the two men chatting for a while as he rummaged the toolbox to dig up the cable. When he finally got it, he jumped off the flatbed. He held the cable up in the air to show it to A.J. "Found it!"

The short Londoner was tipsily walking away muttering something that sounded like, "Cor blimey! I think I'm getting real Brahms!"

"How did you manage to carry a conversation with that guy? I have no idea what he was babbling about." asked Rick scratching his forehead.

A.J., who was inspecting the Power Wagon's battery, looked up from under the hood. "George Bernard Shaw once said the British and American are two nations separated by a common language." He grinned at a baffled look on his brother's face. "And I can see you agree with him."

"Yeah, whatever. But did I hear the English guy right? I thought he called himself Brahms. Was Brahms a real nutjob or something?"

"No, he didn't call himself Brahms." A.J. took the jumper cable from Rick and placed the clamps on the battery's terminals. "It's one example of the old-fashioned rhyming slang. 'Brahms' means 'drunk,' or more precisely, 'pissed.'"

"Uh-huh. And you call that 'rhyming.'"

A.J. smiled at his brother's remark. "Rhyming slang is almost impossible for the outsiders to understand because the second word of the pair, the one that actually rhymes with the intended word, is omitted. In this case, it should be 'Brahms and Liszt.' Liszt and pissed—get it?" He finished connecting the batteries with the cable and got into his car.

"List? What kind of list are you talking about?"

"No, not that kind of list. It's L-I-S-Z-T, as in Franz Liszt, a composer like Brahms."

A.J. shook his head to dismiss Rick's emerging interest in linguistics. "I don't know about you, but I'm really beat. So, let's get this over with and go home."

Rick started to say something, but A.J. ignored him and turned on the car engine hoping his brother wasn't too 'Brahms' to drive home.


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, A.J. slept in and skipped his usual morning run. His brother was still snoring softly on the couch when he came downstairs. Catching a glimpse of Rick's sleeping face, A.J. felt like laughing and groaning at the same time—it was as colorful as a tropical sunset with various hues of bruises and two, asymmetrical black eyes.

Rick's dog, Marlowe, was lying by the couch. He lifted his head and looked up at A.J. expectantly. A.J. let the dog out, switched on the T.V. set and headed for the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. He sure could use a shot of double espresso just to stay awake.

Rick began to stir at the sound of the coffee grinder pulverizing French roast beans. He groggily sat up as the first several drops of the aromatic brew dripped into the carafe. His body creaked and painfully protested telling him he was getting too old to get into a fistfight after a few drinks at a bar, or simply he was getting old.

The morning news was on, and an old but distinguished-looking anchorman was droning on about the murder of some petty criminal. If he had to listen to some boring news, he'd rather hear it from that gorgeous anchorwoman on Channel 3, Rick decided. He picked himself up from the couch to change the channel, but A.J. yelled at him, "Don't touch that channel!"

A.J. came rushing into the living room still holding a butter knife.

"I know that man!" He shouted excitedly pointing the butter knife at the image of the homicide victim on the TV screen. "Well, in a way—I bumped into him right outside Blue Moon last night!"

Rick wasn't too impressed by his brother's claim. "So? You didn't witness the actual murder, A.J. The guy was killed elsewhere, not at the bar."

"I also ran into another man literally, who, I think, was chasing the victim. And I can describe both of them; they were at the same bar at the same time this morning shortly before he was killed."

Rick could see his brother was very excited because he genuinely believed he'd be able to help the police solve this case. A.J. was only several years younger than he but often showed the naïveté of a schoolboy with an overly idealistic view of the world, which sometimes amused and some other times frustrated him. Rick had a hunch it was going to be the latter this time.

"Let the police handle it. The dregs of society like him will be at the bottom of their priority list at the Homicide anyway."

A.J. visibly bristled at his brother's offhand remark. "Rick."

_Oh, here it comes_, thought Rick as he heard A.J. enunciate his name slowly. _His I-am-a-civic-minded-American-and-so-should-you speech_.

"The dregs of society, as you put it, are people just like you and me. They have parents and siblings, who deserve to know what happened to their loved ones."

In a perfect world, maybe, and Rick truly hoped the murder victim had a wonderful family. But in reality, the majority of the hardened criminals came from broken families, and in many cases, their own families were the very reason they had turned to crimes forcing them out of their homes with indifference, neglect and abusive behaviors. A.J. seemed to subconsciously refuse to accept the fact that not all families were as loving as the Simons. Rick kept his thoughts to himself, however.

"If something happened to me, wouldn't you like to know what caused it and who was responsible?" inquired A.J.

"Yeah, but you're not a criminal. And I'm used to having you around no matter how annoying you can get sometimes." Rick tried to look annoyed in order to make his point.

"And by the same token, I'd get to the bottom of it if something happened to you regardless of the pain and suffering you've caused me over the years." A.J shot back. "Besides, it's our civic duty to support the police by reporting any crime, or providing any relevant information for their ongoing investigation."

"Well, then. Go ahead," said Rick with a shrug. "But we have real work to do. We're going to Chula Vista to meet with Duane Foster at 10:30. Remember?"

"Of course I do," said A.J. with a look of annoyance. "I'm going to the police station right now and meet you at the office before we leave for Chula Vista—if that's okay by you." The last phrase dripped with sarcasm.

"Fine by me," said Rick. It was too darn early to have an argument, especially when you had a hangover and your body ached all over.

_Maybe I am really getting old_, thought Rick with a shudder.

When A.J. walked into his office, Rick was at his desk watching TV. One look at his brother was enough for the older Simon to see the things hadn't gone too well for him at the police station.

"Hey, how'd it go?" Rick asked the question anyway.

"A detective, whom you may know by the name of Taggard, spent all of five minutes taking my statement and gave me piles of mug shots to look at," said A.J. with a sour expression on his face.

"Find the guy you were looking for?"

"Yup. Craig Larson. Stints at several prisons for battery, assault with deadly weapon, robbery…the list goes on. He's been out on parole for several months though."

"Sounds like a good candidate. Why the long face?"

A.J. sighed. "Taggard was talking to another man when I got there. This guy, Sean Hanrahan, was there because he was the parole officer for Johnny McBride, the murder victim."

"So?" Rick raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Hanrahan happens to be Larson's PO as well. Said Larson has been exemplary and had no trouble with the law since the last release from the state pen, gave Taggard one of his business cards promising to give him Larson's contact information."

A.J. took out a small piece of paper from a pocket of his jacket and fastidiously placed it in the desk drawer in order to avoid direct eye contact with his brother. The last thing he wanted this morning was seeing Rick's smug 'I-told-you-so' smile on his face.

"That doesn't mean a thing, and you know it, A.J.," said Rick. "Most POs have case files up to their eyeballs and, more often than not, they haven't got a clue as to what their parolees are up to."

"But they didn't take me seriously, especially Taggard. He treated me like a nosy old lady with a runaway imagination and couldn't wait to show me the door."

Rick couldn't help but smile not because he had been right about this whole thing but because his brother looked and sounded like a little kid who had been told to get lost by his big brother and his buddies.

A.J. didn't feel like talking about what had happened at the police station anymore, so he attempted to switch the subject.

"You're enjoying one of the greatest masterpieces, I see," said he with sarcasm, eyeing Bugs Bunny pounding the ivories of a grand piano on TV.

"Are you kidding? This is classic!" Rick exclaimed.

Just then, A.J. recognized the tune, which was the centerpiece of the cartoon. "Hey, I know this piece…"

Rick rolled his eyes. "Of course you do. Like I said, this is classic."

"No, not the cartoon. The music. It's…Hungarian Rhapsody Number 2. Hmm…this is an interesting coincidence."

"Huh? What're ya talkin' about?"

"Do you have any recollection of what happened at Blue Moon last night?"

"Of course."

"Okay then. Remember which composer is paired with 'Brahms' in the rhyming slang I told you about?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

Rick wasn't fooling A.J. though. The younger Simon just smiled and said, "Well, the second composer, whose name is never mentioned in that expression, wrote this music."

Rick's response, "You don't say," clearly meant 'who gives a rat's ass.'

A.J. took a look at his wristwatch. "Okay, Rick. Your art appreciation hour is up. We don't want to get caught in a…"

The phone started ringing, and A.J. picked it up.  
>"Simon &amp; Simon Investigations. This is A.J.," said he signaling his brother to turn down the volume of the TV.<p>

Rick studied his brother's face listening in on the phone conversation and figured it wasn't a business call when he failed to give his usual spiel for their prospective clients. As a matter of fact, A.J. hardly spoke just muttering occasional ohs and I-sees. He ended a short conversation after thanking the caller.

"What was that about?" asked Rick with mild curiosity.

"That was Lt. Taggard."

"What did he say?"

Rick could guess it wasn't exactly what A.J. had been hoping to hear by the look on his face.

"That the man I identified, Craig Larson, has an irrefutable alibi," replied A.J. frowning.

"Like what?"

"According to Taggard, Larson was in a hurry to leave Blue Moon 'cause he was late for a poker game with his buddies."

"His buddies?" Rick shook his head in disbelief. "And Taggard thinks it's an irrefutable alibi?"

"Not by itself, no. But when he arrived at his friend's home, Larson knocked down the next-door neighbor's garbage can while parking his car and apologized to him when he came outside. It was around 1:15 this morning."

"When did McBride die?"

"Autopsy's pending, but the preliminary exam indicates he was killed between 2:00 and 4:00 a.m."

"You know that determining the time of death is just an educated guess. You don't get an absolute, precise answer like in math."

Although Rick didn't want A.J. to get involved in the murder case that wasn't even theirs any further than he already was, he also wanted to be fair.

A.J. shrugged and said, "Yeah, I know. Come on, Rick. We don't wanna be late for the meeting."

He acted as if the phone call from Taggard hadn't bothered him, but Rick knew better than to believe everything was hunky-dory with his brother. It was also obvious that A.J. didn't want to talk about it at the moment.

"Okay. Like I said, we got real work to do."

With a shrug, Rick pushed A.J. out of the office and locked the door behind them.

The brothers' meeting with a prospective client, Duane Foster, was strictly run-of-the-mill. He hired the Simons on the spot to keep an eye on one of his employees who might be stealing from his company. They agreed to start the assignment the next day and received all the information they needed on the employee in question.

During lunch, Rick and A.J. talked about their plan for the afternoon and decided to give another crack at delivering a summons to a weasel named Harold Dunn.

On their way back to their office to retrieve the document, they were passing through their neighborhood when they heard the siren of a squad car. Being private investigators, they were naturally drawn to the sound like a couple of moths to light.

The brothers were alarmed when they found a police car parked in front of A.J.'s home. They jumped out of the Camaro and saw a couple of police officers speaking to their mother, Cecilia.

"Mom! Are you okay?" A.J. ran to her and gathered her in his arms. Rick followed suit.

"Oh, I'm fine physically," said she. "I got a little shaken up when I walked in here and found it in shambles."

The brothers entered the living room through the French doors with Cecilia sandwiched between them. She saw a pained look on the face of her youngest and drew him closer to her.

Soon, it became apparent to the brothers that someone, or some people had tossed the place: torn cushions, clothes on the floor with the pockets turned inside out, plates and cooking utensils thrown out of the kitchen cabinet…

A.J. told the officers nothing seemed to be missing, and that he couldn't think of anyone who might have broken into his home. He received a copy of the police report and a business card from one of the officers before they left.

A.J. shuffled around the house in daze collecting the household items strewn all over the floor with Rick's help. Their mother fretted over Rick's injuries and the upended furniture around her.

"Honey." Cecilia gently placed her hand on A.J.'s arm as he walked by. "Are you sure you don't know who might be responsible for this?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied he softly, but he seemed to have developed a sudden and intense interest in a spot on the carpet and wouldn't look her in the eye.

A.J. wasn't an accomplished liar like her firstborn. "A.J. Look at me when you speak, please," she demanded.

He slowly lifted his head to see her eye to eye.

"Now, tell me one more time—Do you have any idea who's behind this break-in?"

"It's just this nagging feeling I have, that's all, nothing that I can substantiate…"

"What is it, dear?" Cecilia prodded her son gently but firmly.

"I… This may sound crazy, but I feel it in my bones that this is linked to the murder that took place this morning."

Overhearing the ongoing conversation, Rick chimed in. "Oh, come on! You can't be serious."

A.J. bristled at his brother's remark. "All right, then who do you think did this, huh? This isn't burglary—they didn't steal anything. They came here with only one purpose: to look for something they believe I got. And McBride and I made brief contact."

"Contact? All you did was bumping into him! You said so yourself."

"Rick! A.J.!" intervened Cecilia. "Could one of you please tell me what you're talking about?"

A.J. told the whole story right from the beginning, starting from Rick's midnight call from Blue Moon.

"I heard about the murder on the news this morning," gasped Cecilia. "You actually saw him only a few hours before he was killed?" She asked A.J.

"Yes," replied he. "I don't know if these events are connected, or the real reason for this ransacking business, but I can't shake the feeling…"

Cecilia seemed terrified at the thought of his son in imminent danger. "Oh, A.J.! Don't you think you ought to report it to the police?"

A.J. smiled bitterly. "I've already done that, Mom. They don't believe me."

"Oh, sweetheart…" She stood on her toes and hugged him wishing she could turn the time back so she'd be able to make everything better for her little one with a tender embrace once again.

"Mom, I don't want you to read into it too much for now," said Rick. "For all we know, this could be just random vandalism, you know, some kids high on something looking for drugs…"

He had to say something to make her feel better though he knew no one, including himself, believed it.

"It's a tall order, Rick," said Cecilia. "I'm your mother, and it's a mother's duty to worry about her children."

"We're not kids anymore, Mom. We can take care of ourselves." Rick reminded her.

"Oh, I don't know about that, honey." She placed her hand on his face tenderly probing the bruises with a faint smile. Then her expression turned serious again. "I want you to be extra careful, Rick."

Rick nodded.

"And please look after your brother," said Cecilia as she had often done since her sons' boyhood.

"Mom, I'm not the one who needs to be looked after!" complained A.J. indignantly.

"I know you're not kids anymore, but you still need to look after each other every now and then." Cecilia smiled at A.J. "Don't you think so?"

After a beat, he nodded in agreement, and she gathered her two sons in her arms. She finally released them from her tight embrace after Rick gently extricated himself from her arms.

"Mom, I know you have a dinner date tonight. Why don't you go home and freshen up?" said Rick. "I'll stay here and help A.J."

Cecilia seemed uncertain.

"We'll be okay, Mom," reassured A.J.

"All right. But call me when you hear anything, would you?"

The brothers promised they'd call her soon and sent her off with a good-bye kiss.

Shortly after Cecilia's departure, A.J. grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

"Hey, where're you goin'?" asked Rick.

"I'm going back to Blue Moon."

"What? Why?"

"To look for something that caused…this." A.J. indicated the mess around him. "I sure don't have whatever it is, so it must be at the bar."

Rick briefly considered talking him out of it, but a resolute look on his brother's face told him it would be a lost cause.

Resigned, he said, "In that case, I'll go with you."

"You don't have to if don't want to."

"I promised Mom to look after you, remember? I always do anyway."

"Oh, yeah. You sure took good care of me last night, big brother."

They bantered all the way to the bar to get their minds off the unknown that made them increasingly uneasy.

At Blue Moon, the brothers began their search inside the bar, or, more precisely, in the restroom. When the search yielded nothing, they went outside to resume the hunt. A.J. led Rick to the alley where the dumpster was.

"I have a hunch it's hidden somewhere in this alley," said A.J. as if to convince himself. "I saw McBride run out of here."

There were crates and large cardboard boxes piled up against the side of the building in addition to the dumpster and litter. Also present was a pungent odor of ammonia, which was stronger than that in the restroom they had just left.

They carefully checked every piece of trash lying on the ground and still came up empty.

"Well, there's only one thing left to search," said Rick eyeing the dumpster.

"Yup, and I want you to have at it."

Rick made a face. "Why me, and not you?" He asked resentfully.

"Look at me." A.J. spread his arms. "I'm wearing a suit whereas you're wearing basically the same clothes you had on last night when you were lying in the dumpster. If and when you decide to wash them, I can simply hose you down. Do you have any idea how much I'm paying to clean the clothes I wore last night?"

"So much for the equal partnership."

Rick grumbled but climbed into the dumpster nevertheless. He waded in the pile of garbage bags covering the nose and mouth with his shirt.

"Find anything?" asked A.J. hopefully like a child on Christmas Eve.

"Just garbage," said Rick. "Oh, wait a minute. What's this?" He mumbled to himself.

A.J. heard his brother opening something like a zipper. Rick was silent for a second then whistled.

"What is it?" asked A.J. breathlessly.

"Money," answered Rick after a moment. He sounded shocked. "Not just any money, but hot-off-the-press, brand-new bills. And lots of it."

Rick picked up an old, filthy backpack and showed A.J. what was inside.

"Hey, Rick? Wasn't there a big heist about a month ago?"

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. A group of men robbed an armored vehicle and stole over a cool million, but the money is traceable, so they can't spend it."

Rick jumped out of the dumpster. He was more fired up picking up the scent of a big, splashy case.

"I bet Johnny McBride had a role in the robbery and couldn't resist sneaking some of the stolen money to feed his habit. I'm pretty sure he was an addict," said A.J. all psyched up. "This could be the motive for his murder."

"Don't get too excited, A.J.," warned Rick though he himself could not hide the buzz he felt for this turn of events. Too bad they'd have to turn in the loot—he sighed as his brother started the car engine to head for the SDPD once again.

At the police station's reception desk, Rick and A.J. were checking in to receive visitors' badges when they heard a familiar voice, "Jesus, Rick. What the hell did you roll in? Don't you ever take a shower?"

It was Barbara McIntire, a female officer A.J. had gone out with a few times. In a conventional sense, they were not in a relationship, but they were good friends and confidants.

Rick coolly glanced at her and shot back, "For your information, this is what dedication and hard work, which the police department knows nothing of, smells like."

Barbara frowned and asked A.J. "What is he talking about? Is he on some meds?"

"We believe we found a small fraction of the money stolen in the Secure Guard robbery case."

"_We?_" asked Rick emphatically.

"All right! _You_ found it in a pile of garbage. There, happy?" said A.J. rolling his eyes. "Would you mind taking that to Taggard? I'd like to talk to Barbara privately."

Rick didn't mind it at all. He almost salivated at the thought of cracking a high profile case and getting media exposure.

He went to the Homicide Division to seek out Taggard. The detective was an overweight, middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and a face like Winston Churchill on a bad day.

He grimaced at Rick. "Another one of the Simon clan, eh?"

The receptionist must have announced the brothers' arrival. Taggard glanced at the backpack in Rick's hand and took it from him.

"So, you think you found some of the stolen money?"

Rick developed an instant dislike for him as he detected a condescending, derisive tone.

"Listen, Taggard," said Rick testily. "We're trying to help you guys out with two open cases, so don't jerk us around."

Taggard's face turned bright red. "No, you listen! We're not a couple of amateurs that are operating fast and loose. We have proper channels and procedures to go through."

"Yeah, I believe it's called red-tape." Rick shot his mouth off.

Taggard's face became redder. "Look here, wiseguy, let me spell it out for ya—First, we have to verify the bills' serial numbers. And if they turn out to be from the robbery case, it still doesn't prove it has anything to do with the McBride case."

Taggard abruptly stood up from his chair holding the backpack.

"Where're you going?" asked Rick.

"Like I said, there's no evidence to link this money to the murder, so I'm gonna take it to where it belongs—to the investigative team for the Secure Guard heist."

Taggard stalked off without another word.

It was almost unbearable for Rick to admit that the detective was right, but he had a point. At the moment, his only option was to follow him and speak with the robbery investigation team.

When Rick returned to the reception area, A.J. was waiting for him.

"What did Taggard say?" A.J. asked with guarded optimism.

Rick huffed, "He's a stupid jerk!"

A young officer in uniform at the reception desk looked up. He seemed to be trying to hold back a grin.

A.J. returned the visitors' badges to the officer and shrugged. "He's no Mr. Congeniality, that's for sure, but what did he say about the money?"

The brothers left the police station and walked back to A.J.'s Camaro.

"He didn't even take a look and took it straight to the robbery team because there's no proof the money's linked to the robbery or the murder at this moment."

"Did you talk to the investigators on the Secure Guard case?"

"Said it'd take some time to check on the serial numbers. Will call."

"In other words, don't sit by the phone holding your breath."

Rick nodded with a frown as he plopped down on the passenger seat.

"What about you? Get anything out of Barbara the Barbarian?"

"She's no more barbarian than you are a refined gentleman, but to answer your question, not much." A.J. sighed. "There's not much in the McBride file because the body was found this morning, just a little more than twelve hours ago. Only preliminary reports by the investigators and the ME, the list of the victim's personal effects…"

"What did he die of?"

"According to Barbara, the coroner noted petechial hemorrhages and listed asphyxiation or strangulation as a possible cause of death."

A.J. turned the ignition key.

"So, what now?" Rick wondered aloud.

"For now, we're going back and clean up the rest of the mess at home."

"We?"

"Yes, it means you and I. Didn't I hear you say to Mom, 'I'll stay here and help A.J.'?"

Rick silently cursed his brother's elephantine memory as they pulled out of the parking lot.


	3. Chapter 3

A.J. missed his morning run two days in a row because he had been up well into the early morning hours straightening up the mess the intruders had left behind. He spent good fifteen minutes in a hot shower then padded down to the kitchen to get the coffee maker going. While performing his morning ritual, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

He assumed it was probably his mother worried about him after yesterday's incident.

"Mr. Simon? Mr. Andrew Simon?"

He was surprised to hear an unfamiliar male voice. "Yes, this is he."

"I'm sorry to bother you so early, but I don't know your work schedule and wanted to catch you before you left for work."

"That's all right, sir. I'm used to receiving calls at all hours. It comes with the territory."

"Truth in advertisement—I like that. I'm Carlton Price, President of Secure Guard." The caller paused to let the information sink in. "I understand that you found a portion of the money stolen from our armored vehicle."

"Yes, I believe so."

"You know this is the first break we've ever got in the robbery investigation so far. I'm certain that the police are doing their best to solve this case, but it's been slow-going. To make a long story short, I'd like to hire you to track the rest of the money."

A.J. blinked a few times to clear away the cobwebs. "That's great! We won't disappoint you, Mr. Price. My brother and I can start right away, and it'll be our priority…"

"Excuse me, Mr. Simon." Price interrupted A.J. "The reason I called you this early is that I am leaving for L.A. this morning and would like to see you and discuss our case in person before I go. Could you possibly meet me in my office in half an hour?"

"That wouldn't be a problem at all, sir," A.J. didn't hesitate to answer. "But my brother might not be able to make it. Is it all right if I see you alone?"

"Certainly. I know it's such a short notice." Price sounded relieved. "The office won't be officially open until 9:00, so I'll post one of the guards at the entrance and have him escort you in when you get here. Do you know where our office is, Mr. Simon?"

"I do."

A.J. thanked Price and quickly got off the phone to be ready for an impromptu meeting. On his way out, he was about to take a step toward Rick's boat in the backyard but heard a noise coming from the garage.

He found Rick lying on his back working on the undercarriage of his Power Wagon.

"Rick, I didn't know you were up so early."

Rick slid out from under the truck. "Just wanted to look 'er over so she won't be acting up again before I take this baby to the shop this weekend."

Seeing his brother already in business attire, Rick checked on his wristwatch. "I thought we didn't have to start the surveillance till 10:00 this morning," said he with a puzzled look.

"I just received a call from Carlton Price." A.J. grinned.

"Carlton Price?" Rick cocked his head searching his memory. "Why does it sound so familiar…?"

"He's the head of Secure Guard. He was on the news often after the heist. He wants to hire us to work on the robbery case," announced A.J. all revved up with a new prospect. "He's going to L.A. this morning but wants to have a meeting with me before he leaves in..." He took a quick glance at his watch. "…twenty-five minutes. Thought you were still in bed. If I don't have time to go to the office, I'll see you at the surveillance site. Okay? Bye!"

Before Rick could fully digest what his brother had said, A.J. was in his Camaro, backing out of the driveway.

The building of Secure Guard was located in the industrial section of the city. It had a huge annex to keep its armored vehicles and provide loading areas.

A.J. drove through the security gate that readily opened for him. As he was getting out of his car, he saw a guard approaching.

"Mr. Simon?" asked the guard. His uniform had a name LaRoche sewn on and looked a little snug on his stocky build.

"Yes."

"Mr. Price is in his office, but he asked me to show you the car that got hijacked in the robbery before the meeting."

For a brief moment, A.J. thought it was odd; the police must have searched and found any evidence, if at all, in the vehicle after the robbery, and it had been a month since then. But he was eager to please his big client and, most of all, prove to himself that the heist and the McBride case shared common denominators. He nodded and followed LaRoche to the annex.

There were several armored cars in the building. The guard led A.J. to the one closest to the entrance. He opened the back of the vehicle for A.J. and said, "Here. Take a look." He stepped aside.

When A.J. took a few steps closer to have a better look, LaRoche rammed him from behind into the vehicle and slammed the door shut. He stumbled and fell to the floor, but he picked himself up almost instantly. That was when he saw a man sitting on one of the benches.

It was Craig Larson, the man A.J. had positively ID'd, last seen at Blue Moon the other night. He had a vicious grin on his face and a gun in his hand.

Rick knew it was a bad omen when his brother didn't show up at work on time. A.J. never failed to call when he was running late. Still, Rick had to leave the office to start the new assignment in Chula Vista for Duane Foster. He knew it was overkill, but he left a voice message on each answering machine at work and A.J.'s home, plus a handwritten note on his desk.

Rick usually didn't mind this type of work. Taking turns with his brother, he could do whatever he wanted, even sleep, when he wasn't on the watch. It was easy money in most part, but going solo was another story.

He found a perfect spot to park his truck to keep an eye on the mark. There was a payphone near the target's office as well. During the surveillance, he checked on the two answering machines a few times—still no word from A.J.

He was getting desperate by lunchtime and decided to call his mother praying he'd be able to magically find his brother at her place.

"Hello." Cecilia's bubbly voice came on after a couple of rings.

"Hi, Mom," said Rick, hoping he sounded as cheerful as she so as not to alarm her unnecessarily. "How's my favorite lady?"

"If I'm your favorite, why don't you take me out for lunch more often?"

"I can't right now—I'm on a new case."

There was a slight pause. When she spoke again, Cecilia sounded somber. "Is A.J. all right?"

Rick nearly panicked for a moment thinking somehow she had found out about his brother going MIA, but then he realized she was referring to the break-in the day before.

"You know, he looked real tired this morning. He was up almost all night cleaning up the house, but I'm sure he'll be all right."

"He _looked_ tired?" Cecilia asked suspiciously. "Isn't he with you?"

"Uh, no. He received a call from the president of Secure Guard early this morning. The thing is, Mom, yesterday we went back to Blue Moon and found a part of the money stolen from the company's armored car, and it sounds like they're interested in hiring us to track the rest of it. So, A.J. went to Secure Guard to meet with the big cheese while I'm doing some other work."

"Why didn't you call me when you found the money last night? You said you'd call and fill me in on the new development."

"I didn't know what time you'd come home." It was not untrue. He'd learned from the past experience that the best way to avoid telling the truth was not to lie. "By the way, how was your dinner date? And more importantly, how was your beau? I hope he behaved like a gentleman." Duck, dodge and feint.

"That's none of your damn business, but thanks for asking," said Cecilia with a smile in her voice. "Anyway, thank you for the update. And I do appreciate your being there for A.J. I know he can be difficult to be around when he's under a lot of stress and pressure…"

His mother's kind words had unintentional effects on him, inflaming his gnawing guilt that he'd somehow failed her and A.J.

"Um, Mom? I gotta go back to work." Feeling the tight grip on his emotions loosen, he lied. He could no longer sit on his hands and wait for his brother to come back on his own.

After he finished his call to his mother, Rick called Duane Foster to inform him that he'd have to curtail today's work due to a family emergency.

He returned to his office to regroup. He was able to think more objectively once he was back in his work environment. One of the scenarios for A.J.'s unexplained absence was an accident. So, he called P.J. Howe, another investigator who almost exclusively worked for an ambulance chaser. The guy had a police scanner and screened the police radio communication for a living.

"P.J.? Rick Simon."

"Rick! Long time, no see. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Well, I'm calling to see if you heard about any major accidents in and around town this morning."

"What? You trying to carve a niche in my field?" P.J. asked half jokingly.

"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm trying to track someone who's been a no-show since this morning."

"Oh, okay." P.J. sounded somewhat relieved. "Let's see… There was a three-car accident on I-5 a little after 7:00, a hit-and-run in Balboa Park, a car on fire on the 805. Others are nothing but fender-benders, my friend."

"Any fatality?" Rick tried to sound neutral.

"A woman was killed in the accident on I-5. The hit-and-run victim is in critical condition. Last I heard he was in ICU."

"Who's he?"

"A college kid who was riding his bike. Got hit from behind."

"Got make and model of the burning car?"

"A van, maybe a Ford Econoline, but I'm not sure."

Rick had heard enough to rule out an auto accident as the cause of A.J.'s disappearance. He thanked P.J. and promised to buy him lunch soon.

Next on Rick's checklist was Secure Guard. He looked up the phone number in the yellow pages.

"This is Rick Simon of Simon & Simon Investigations. May I speak with Mr. Price?"

He remembered A.J. telling him that Price would be leaving town, but they might be able to patch him through to the boss, he hoped.

"Please hold while I check with his office," answered the receptionist.

She came back on after a minute or less. "Thank you for holding. I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Simon, that our president left for L.A. for a corporate meeting yesterday and won't be in until next Monday."

After that, Rick could hardly remember what she or he had said before hanging up the phone. The alarm inside his head was now clanging so loud he couldn't think straight. As he struggled to gather his thoughts, the phone began to ring.

Rick picked up the phone receiver hoping against hope to find A.J. on the other end of the line.

"Simon & Simon Investigations. This is…"

"Shut up and listen, Simon."

Rick's heart instantly began racing. He gripped the phone receiver in his hand tighter as though his life—and A.J.'s—depended on it.

"We have your brother."

He had already known that in his gut. Nevertheless, a sensation of dread was rapidly spreading in the pit of his stomach.

"Is… Is he all right?" All of a sudden, he found it difficult to talk, stumbling on some words.

"I said, shut up and listen!" The caller hissed. "Your brother will be safe for the next twenty-four hours while you look for something we need."

"What do you mean? What am I supposed to find?"

"Something that leads us to what we want."

It sounded like a conundrum. "What? You mean, like a key? A map? Come on, if you want something, you gotta give me a better clue than that!"

"You'll know when you see it."

Rick was becoming overwhelmed and frantic. "Let me speak to my brother," he demanded.

The caller's voice became muffled. Rick assumed he had covered the mouthpiece to speak someone else. He heard another man talk. _So, there are at least two men holding A.J._

The caller came back on the phone, "Here. Ask him if he's okay but nothing else."

"A.J.?" Rick strained his ears, but A.J. was quiet. "A.J.?" He spoke again with mounting anxiety.

In the background, the kidnapper snapped at A.J., "Say something!"

At the distinct sound of a slap and his brother's yelp, Rick recoiled as if he were the one who had received the blow.

"Damn it, A.J.! Stop being such a stubborn ass! You gotta talk and let me know you're okay!" He yelled into the phone.

"Ri-Ricky?" A.J. finally uttered his brother's name haltingly.

_He's trying to tell me something_. A.J. hadn't called his big brother Ricky since kindergarten because Rick had repeatedly taught him a painful lesson not to do so. They both knew they had only a moment or two to speak, so A.J. was cueing Rick to pay attention, but it was easier said than done. Rick knew A.J. was mostly acting, but he managed to sound so young and scared like he used to during a thunderstorm or a blackout he had a visceral reaction.

"You okay?" Rick heard a little tremor in his own voice.

Suddenly, a stream of words tumbled out of A.J.'s mouth in a rapid-fire delivery. "I'm sorry, Ricky. I should have listened to you and Brahms when you told me not to meddle with…"

"Enough!" One of the thugs shouted in the background amid the jumble of the noises: some furniture toppling over and a dull thud that sounded like a body hitting a hard-surface floor.

"Don't hurt him!" Rick screamed. "If you so much as harm a hair on his head…"

"Shut up, Simon!" The kidnapper was back on the phone. "You ain't got no bargaining chip, and we got an ace in the hole. Do as I say, or you'll never see your brother alive again, and you and your mama ain't gonna have much of him left to bury. Got that?"

Rick sighed in total capitulation. "Yeah, I hear you."

"As I said, you have exactly twenty-four hours. I'll call you again tomorrow at the same time and give you further instructions. If you miss the call, your brother will die. If you call the cops, he'll die. If you so much as breathe a word about this to anyone, even to your big, mangy mongrel dog…"

"All right! I get the picture!" yelled Rick.

"Good," sneered the kidnapper. "Happy hunting."

Then the line went dead.

Rick held the phone receiver tightly in his hand for a few moments before reluctantly putting it back on the base.

Twenty-four hours—that wasn't enough for some of much simpler cases like missing persons. How was he supposed to save his brother's life when he had no clue what he should be looking for in such a short space of time?

_No, not quite._ He shook his head. _A.J. gave me some clues. He didn't speak on the phone right away because he was formulating a way to sneak certain clues in his message._

He closed his eyes and hit the 'rewind' button on the audio tape player in his head.

_I should have listened to you and Brahms when you told me not to meddle with…_

There! The subject of Brahms had come up a couple of times in the recent past, but the other clue was much more obvious.

_Let the police handle it. The dregs of the society like him will be at the bottom of the priority list at the Homicide anyway. _

He had told A.J. not to get involved in the homicide case of Johnny McBride. _So, he is onto something in the murder investigation after all_, Rick surmised. But who was the culprit? The police had informed the Simon brothers Craig Larson, the man whom A.J. had seen at Blue Moon, had an unshakable alibi. _Then who kidnapped A.J.? And what is the link between the murder and this mystery treasure hunt?_

Treasure hunt… Those words triggered something else in his brain. _A bag of money we found in the dumpster at Blue Moon, a small portion of the loot the thieves had made off with from a Secure Guard armored vehicle. Did McBride steal some or all of a million plus from his gang? But the bills are all sequential and traceable, so they're worthless for the crooks…_

Rick seemed to have hit the wall on the first clue, so he decided to move on to the second one for a change of pace. The last time A.J. had mentioned 'Brahms,' he had been watching a classic Bugs Bunny cartoon…

_Hmm… this is an interesting coincidence_, Rick heard his brother's voice in his head. _Remember which composer is paired with 'Brahms' in the rhyming slang I told you about?_

Of course he did. He hadn't been that drunk—or pissed—the previous night at the bar. It was List, or something similar with an additional Z tossed in somewhere. Regardless of the spelling, it sounded the same as 'list,' which rhymed…

Rick's eyes flew open as he realized he had stumbled onto something. He could now clearly recall their conversation at the bar.

_List? What kind of list are you talking about?_

_No, not that list. It's L-I-S-Z-T, as in Franz Liszt, a composer like Brahms._

List! _Is that what you were trying to tell me, A.J.? A list? But what kind of list is it?_

Not surprisingly, A.J.'s voice in his head had no answer for it.

A glimmer of hope Rick had felt only moments ago began to fade. Calling A.J. a well-organized person was like calling Mount Everest just a mountain. He was so über type-A, he made a list for just about anything: shopping list on the side of the fridge, to-do list around the house, work schedule sorted by priorities and deadlines, vendors list at work, social calendar at home…

But he could not afford to give in to despair in this life-and-death situation, Rick reminded himself. And failure was not an option. This list had to be related to the McBride case. But the police were handling it, and A.J. had no file—or list—for the case because he was merely poking around unofficially on his own time.

What list? Rick felt like screaming at his brother. Instead, he closed his eyes again trying to recall every word he had told him in the last couple of days.


	4. Chapter 4

Barbara crinkled her upturned nose when she spotted Rick approaching her desk.

"What're you doing here? Didn't Loot tell you you're _persona non grata_?" said she turning her attention back to the form she was filling out.

Hearing no reply from him, she looked up from her paperwork. As she saw tension and urgency etched on his face, her pulse quickened.

"What's wrong? Something happen to A.J.?"

"Not in here," said Rick in a low voice and grasped her upper arm to lift all of one hundred fifteen pounds of her out of the chair unceremoniously.

They found a relatively quiet corner by the police station entrance.

Barbara faced Rick and demanded in a harsh whisper, "For God's sake, tell me what happened."

"A.J.'s been kidnapped."

The news rattled her, but being a trained police offer, she was able to keep her composure.

"By whom? And why?" A quiver in her voice betrayed her calm exterior.

"He hinted someone, or some people tied to the Johnny McBride murder case. And I'm sure they're the ones who tossed his place yesterday."

"How can you be so sure?"

"One of the kidnappers said not to tell anyone about this, not even to my, and I quote, big, mangy mongrel dog. He must have seen Marlowe in my boat cabin when he was at A.J.'s."

"Rick, why are you telling me this? You've got to involve the hostage negotiation team to…"

"_No!_" The word came out of his mouth much louder than Rick had intended. "They'll kill A.J. if the police are involved, and they will know if I talk to anyone else here."

"What're you saying?" Barbara snapped at him offended by what had been implied.

"Think about it—McBride's murder didn't get a lot of media coverage; I woulda missed it if I had blinked during the news broadcast. Then A.J. comes here to provide some information, and his place gets broken into on the same day. Next we find and bring some money from the Secure Guard heist here, and he gets snatched the very next morning."

The frown lines between Barbara's eyebrows deepened.

"I'm not accusing anyone on the SDPD payroll of leaking the information, but the crooks seem to have instant access to the highly sensitive information. Can't you see that?"

"So, what do you want me to do?" asked Barbara guardedly.

Rick licked his lips. "I hate to ask you this, but I need a copy of everything that's inside the McBride file, especially the list of his personal effects at the time of his death."

She cocked her head questioningly.

"The kidnappers let me talk to A.J., and he gave me a clue that I should check on some kind of list. I've been racking my brain, and I remember him telling me about the list in McBride's case file. That's the only thing I can think of."

Barbara kept frowning without a word.

"The kidnappers gave me only twenty-four hours to find what they want, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for. I'm pretty sure they don't know it either."

Rick waited the longest, agonizing ten seconds for Barbara's response.

"Wait here. I'll be back." She finally said tersely and disappeared into the innards of the police station.

Barbara returned fifteen minutes or so later with a file folder inconspicuously tucked between two binders. She turned her back to the staff manning the reception desk ten, fifteen paces away.

"I made a photocopy of every report and piece of evidence in our files for the McBride and the Secure Guard cases," she whispered then added in her normal tone, "Here's the updated information on your B&E case, Rick. Could you give it to A.J.?"

Accepting the folder from her, Rick played along. "Hey, I really appreciate it. Let me know if you hear anything new, would ya?"

Barbara nodded and mouthed the words, "Go find him."

As Rick was unlocking the office door, the telephone began to ring. He rushed inside to pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Is this A.J.?" A female voice asked uncertainly.

"No, this is Rick." He felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Oh, I'm Rosie of Sunshine Dry Cleaning. May I speak to A.J.? This is regarding the clothes he dropped off yesterday morning."

"He's…out of the office right now." His response was clipped. "I'll take your message."

"Could you please tell him that I found his personal item in one of the pockets on his leather jacket?"

Suddenly, Rick felt a fresh adrenaline rush. "Personal item? What is it?"

"A key."

"A key? Not a key-ring with lots of keys?" With one ear pressed against the phone, he could hear his own pounding heart as he spoke.

"No. Just one small key, too small to be a house or car key, I think."

"Great! Listen, Rosie. Can I come over and pick it up right away for my brother?"

"Oh, sure. Anytime."

Rick received the direction to get to the dry cleaner, thanked her and hung up. He was almost out of the door when he remembered something. He strode over to A.J.'s desk and opened the drawer. Inside he found the claim ticket for the clothes at the cleaner in the usual place. This was one of few times he was thankful that his brother was so anal-retentive and predictable.

Sunshine Dry Cleaning was located in a nearby strip mall, which was only five or six minutes from the office of Simon & Simon. Rick walked in the shop whose window proudly claimed _'se habla Inglés'_ and rang the bell on the counter to announce his arrival.

A heavy-set, middle-aged woman emerged from the back of the shop.

"_¿Qué puedo hacer por usted, señor?_"

Rick doubted she was the person he'd spoken with but asked her anyway, _"¿Es usted Rosie?_"

The Hispanic woman shook her head. "_Uno momento, por favor_."

She shouted as she retreated to the back of the shop, "_Rosita! Necesito tu ayuda!"_

A young Latina bounded out of the backroom and greeted Rick, "_Hola!_" She had thick, wavy brown hair, liquid obsidian-black eyes and a mega-watt smile.

"Hi, Rosie. I'm Rick Simon. You called my office not too long ago to get in touch with my brother, A.J."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Rosie tilted her head to one side studying Rick's face. "He's your brother?"

"Yeah, but I have a sneaking suspicion he's adopted."

That made her giggle like a young girl. Rick took out the claim ticket from his wallet and placed it on the counter.

"The ticket shows he brought his shirt, pants and leather jacket. Did you find anything else in addition to the key you mentioned?"

Rosie shook her head. "No. I was kind of surprise to find the key 'cause he's usually very careful not to leave anything in the pockets of the clothes he brings in."

_A.J. was in a hurry to get to the police station before work_, recalled Rick.

"The key's right here. I had it ready right after I called you."

Rosie reached down to get a plastic baggie from under the counter and gave it to Rick. Inside the bag was a small key. He saw a tiny metal ring in the hole in the key's bow. The break in the ring was slightly apart and misaligned as though something, like a tag, had been torn off in a hurry.

"It doesn't look much, does it? Maybe it's nothing important, but who knows…"

"Rosie," said he looking deeply into her liquid eyes and took her hand in his. "You have no idea…"

A.J. had no idea how long he had been locked up in this small, dark room. It was in the basement of some house and had no windows. The kidnappers put him in the trunk of their car to transport him here, so he had no way of knowing where he was, but it took only fifteen to twenty minutes from the Secure Guard office, so it was probably within a ten-mile radius, A.J. assumed. He guessed it was still early evening though there was no telling what time it was. Larson and LaRoche had taken his watch to disorient him.

Somewhere outside the room, there was a creak of a door.

_Someone is coming down here_.

Sure enough, A.J. heard a footfall on the stairs then the jingling noise of a set of keys rapping on the door of his makeshift cell. The door opened, and he saw the silhouette of his captor.

When the light came on, the harsh light of the single, naked incandescent light bulb was blinding to A.J.'s eyes that had adjusted to the near pitch-black darkness. He instinctively shielded his eyes.

"Room service."

It was LaRoche, the guard—or someone disguised as one—of Secure Guard was one of the kidnappers. He was out of uniform and had street clothes on, carrying a food tray.

"I'll be back for the tray in ten minutes whether you're done or not."

LaRoche set the tray on the floor and left the room.

A.J. was once again alone in the solitary confinement, but he was glad the guard had left the light on. He looked around and re-examined the room, which was not much bigger than a prison cell. He was sitting on an old, stained mattress that lay on the concrete floor. On one end of the room, there was a filthy toilet bowl with no toilet seat. Other than those amenities, the room was bare except for the light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

His left ankle was shackled to the plumbing pipe in one corner, and his wrists were handcuffed together. He could feed himself if he chose to, but he had no intention of touching anything on the tray. The food the kidnapper had left was junk—the kind kids and Rick would love to eat at every mealtime, but that was not the reason he wouldn't eat it.

A.J. knew right from the beginning that the odds of his getting out of this jam alive were extremely slim. The fact that the kidnappers hadn't bothered to conceal their identities meant only one thing; they were going to make sure he wouldn't be able to ID them later. If he wanted to stay alive, he'd have to be alert at all times, and he couldn't risk it by consuming any food or drink, which might or might not be spiked.

He broke the food into smaller chunks and tossed them into the toilet without hesitation. Dumping a glass of orange juice was a little harder because he hadn't had any fluids for close to ten hours, maybe more. To make the matters worse, this basement room had poor ventilation and stifling. The rational part of him knew the tangy flavor of OJ was ideal to mask the aftertaste of some chemical substance, but his body begged him to take a sip, just one sip… His eyes lingered longingly on the glass for several seconds. In the end, every single drop of the juice went down the drain with the food.

Some time later—A.J. had no idea how much time had passed—he heard the door open but remained still on the mattress playing possum.

"Out like a light. See, I told you, the stuff works," said one of the kidnappers confirming A.J.'s suspicion.

A.J. heard one of them coming into the room to pick up the food tray.

"He'll be out till tomorrow morning at least, so we don't have to worry about him busting out of this place." The man, Larson maybe, kicked A.J. for no good reason.

"I hope you know what you're doing," spoke the other man at the doorway. "We still need him until tomorrow. He's not OD'd, is he?"

"Naw, but he'll still be groggy and won't be able to do anything cute when his brother shows up. And he'll never know what hit him when we pull the trigger."

A.J. heard the door close. On the other side of the locked door, the two men were still talking, but their voices were getting fainter as they walked up the stairs.

A.J. opened his eyes, but it didn't make much difference. The room had plunged into darkness again—so dark it was like going blind. Unable to see the surrounding, his mind started to wander.

_And he'll never know what hit him when we pull the trigger._

He couldn't get that voice out of his mind. He'd known what the kidnappers would do with him when he was no longer useful, but it still had shocked him to the core to hear them talk about killing a man so casually as though they were discussing weather.

_And I will feel when a bullet pierces my flesh, bores through the bones, ruptures the vital organs… Will Rick have to watch me die before they kill him too? And Mom—oh, God, she'll be…_

Abruptly, A.J. dug his heels in and refused to go down that path any further. _Stop torturing yourself_, he told himself.

To change mental gears, he tried yet again to assess the current situation objectively.

There was no way he could free himself from the chain and the cuffs without any tool. The only chance of breaking out, however small, would be during the rendezvous with Rick when Larson and LaRoche must present him as live bait. Until then, he'd have to conserve his energy, A.J. decided. He was drained mentally and physically and had some aches and pains, but he was in decent physical condition, considering.

Hunger didn't bother him. When he was under a lot of stress, he couldn't eat anyway, but he was thirsty. _God, what I wouldn't do for a sip of water…_

Trying to put his fears and thirst to rest, A.J. tried to find a more comfortable position on the mattress and closed his eyes.

Drenched in cold sweat, Rick jerked awake from a nightmare where he'd had to watch his brother die a prolonged, agonizing, violent death. In his dream, A.J. had screamed his name over and over begging for help, but he had been utterly helpless, unable to move or look away from the carnage.

He was still at his desk in the office. He must have fallen asleep and thrashed about in his sleep—sheets of paper, pens and folders were scattered around on the floor.

He checked his wristwatch: four in the morning. No more sleep for him. He found no solace in sleep; it was, as a matter of fact, worse than when he was awake. Fears, guilt, despair, and all the rest of emotions he was consciously suppressing in the wakeful state would come roaring back, paralyzing and suffocating him while he slept.

_Sleep is highly overrated anyway_, Rick told himself. Besides, there was less than twelve hours until the next call from the thugs. No more dilly-dallying.

"Hope you're holding up better than I am, A.J."

Rick was totally unaware that he was talking to his brother who wasn't there while picking up the folders and documents.


	5. Chapter 5

A.J.'s body involuntarily twitched at the sound of keys rapping gently on the door. He was fully awake instantly as the key started to turn to unlock the door. He couldn't believe he'd drifted off no matter how exhausted he'd been. How long had he been asleep? And what time was it?

Someone came into the room and turn on the light, but A.J. remained still on the mattress, eyes closed.

"Hey, wake up! It's time for breakfast."

LaRoche poked A.J. while setting down the food tray he had brought, but his prisoner only mumbled something unintelligible and didn't wake up.

"I said, wake up!" LaRoche grabbed A.J.'s upper arm and pulled him up to a sitting position.

Eyes still closed, A.J. moaned, "Five more minutes, please…"

LaRoche shook A.J. a few times trying to rouse him, but when he let go of the arm, his body collapsed on the mattress in slow motion.

Unsure of what to do next, LaRoche just stood there for a moment or two looking down at the sleeping form at his feet. He softly cussed at Larson and A.J. then left the room.

A.J. opened his eyes when LaRoche was out of the basement. Only several inches from his face lay the food tray. The only thing his brain registered was a tall glass of cranberry juice or fruit punch. He could almost taste it and tried to swallow the imaginary juice, but inside his mouth was sticky and dry with little saliva.

Looking at the drink was sheer torture. He laboriously turned his back to the tray wondering how much longer he'd be able to endure. One way or the other, this would all come to an end in several hours, he told himself matter-of-factly.

Rick walked out of a Trailways bus depot and crossed another entry off his notebook. It was still eight in the morning, but he'd been on a grim treasure hunt for a couple of hours.

It was relatively easy to guess the key Rosie of Sunshine Dry Cleaning had found was for a cheap safe, a suitcase, a deposit box, or a locker. Rick had eliminated the first three for several reasons, but the main one was that Johnny McBride had been a habitual drug user.

The ME's preliminary report mentioned needle marks on the limbs and the torso among other places. An ex-con with an expensive habit couldn't have opened a bank account or rented a safe deposit box. And Rick doubted that McBride had been able to scrape enough money to buy a large safe or a suitcase to keep over a million dollars. In addition, hiding and carrying something large like a safe around didn't fit in his transient lifestyle.

So, he had quickly zeroed in on coin-operated lockers in town. Initially, he'd had no idea how many businesses and facilities offered such services. Bus depots, train stations, amusement parks, public swimming pools… He looked up all possible businesses in the phone book then winnowed them down further taking the types of business and location into account. Some establishments like a gym that required membership were out, and so were high-end businesses where a junkie would stick out like a sore thumb. He painstakingly complied a list of possible businesses where the money could be hidden using the phone book. He had also chosen the starting point for this search—Blue Moon's vicinity.

It was just his gut instinct, but Rick figured that since Johnny McBride had hidden or abandoned a fraction of the stolen money in the bar's dumpster, there was a good chance the rest of the money was hidden close by.

Once he could find the right location, he'd have to find one locker that really mattered. He was up most of the night and early morning hours trying to get the answer he'd been looking for and found a promising lead in the McBride file.

Having been a drug addict, the victim had very few personal possessions on his person at the time of his death. Most of them were mundane items such as keys, paltry amount of cash, but one thing stood out because of the place where it had been hidden—inside his sock as noted in one of the report. It was only a torn piece of paper about the size of a saltine cracker, and on it was a handwritten note: A-cix.

Rick assumed McBride had misspelled and that the note should have read A-six. Or maybe it was a case of bad penmanship. It was another piece of the puzzle though the entire picture was nowhere near finished. He figured the key he was wearing like a talisman around his neck must have had a tag showing the locker number once but McBride had removed it for precaution.

Locker A-6 in a public coin-operated locker facility near Blue Moon—that was Rick had been after. And he could guess what was in the locker: the rest of the stolen money. What he couldn't figure out was why the robbers were so desperate to get it back although they wouldn't be able to spend it. Maybe there was something that would incriminate them stashed along with it.

The heist must have been an inside job though every employee of Secure Guard had been cleared after extensive investigation after the robbery. Rick wondered if the content of this elusive locker would implicate someone who'd been under the radar so far.

He plodded along, checking out the facilities with rental lockers on the list he'd compiled. He had known from the beginning finding the locker was a long shot, but after several hours of futility, he was becoming discouraged, desperate and plain angry. How could he call himself an investigator when he hadn't been able to find the damn locker in order to rescue his own flesh and blood?

Rick trudged into a Greyhound bus depot with considerably diminished expectation. As he looked around in the locker area, a glimmer of hope returned. The lockers were sectioned into rows A through D. In addition, the shape of the locker keys seemed identical to that of the key he had.

However, his hope was instantly dashed when he saw the numbering—the first locker in Row A was A-101. Moreover, A-106 was unoccupied. He stared at the empty locker in abject despair.

Rick slammed his fist and banged his head on one of the lockers a few times.

_How much time do I have left?_ He checked his watch: only ninety-eight minutes before the dreaded call.

_I may have to resort to Plan B_, thought Rick. The problem was, at the moment, he had no idea what that plan might entail.

Larson and LaRoche opened the door of the basement room and found the private eye curled up in a fetal position on the mattress. He had not touched the food or the drink.

"Hey, Simon! Wake up!" Larson yelled as he and LaRoche entered the room.

"Leave me alone. I don't feel so well." A.J. muttered refusing to get up.

Larson grabbed A.J.'s arm and yanked him up in a sitting position.

"On your feet, or you're gonna feel much worse!" he barked.

A.J. reluctantly rose to his feet while LaRoche was removing the shackle from his ankle. He shuffled his feet slowly when he was given marching orders with a little shove in the back.

The crooks got impatient with his deliberate slow pace and dragged him up the stairs. It would have been much easier on his body had he cooperated with them for his shins kept hitting the stair treads all the way up, but he was feeling contemptuous and downright ornery. He didn't want to behave like a lamb being meekly led to the slaughterhouse. He had vowed to himself he'd keep fighting to the bitter end.

At the top of the stairs, they turned right. Before they got to the kitchen, they passed the bathroom, and A.J. saw something shiny on the countertop in the corner of his eye.

In the kitchen, the kidnappers let go of his arms. Larson opened the door that opened to the attached garage, and LaRoche reached for a notebook or address book on the counter.

Standing alone, A.J. acted as if he were still unsteady on his feet. As he dropped to the floor in a shapeless pile, he stuck his fingers in his throat behind his captors' backs. His body's reflex was immediate. Having eaten nothing for over a day and a half, his stomach was empty. The digestive juice burned his esophagus making his eyes water as he threw up violently.

The kidnappers yelled in disgust when the vomit hit the floor with a splash.

"Damn it, Larson! He's sick. You must have given him too much dope!" LaRoche snapped.

"I did not!" Larson shot him a nasty glare.

A.J.'s body continued to heave, but mercifully nothing more came up. He slowly lifted his head.

"I wah… I wanna wash up…please…" He slurred his speech trying to convince them he was still under the drug's influence. He let the saliva tinged with stomach acid trickle down his chin ignoring the urge to wipe it off.

Without a word, Larson grabbed A.J.'s collar and yanked him up to his feet as if he were picking up a cat. He dragged him to the bathroom down the hallway and shoved him against the counter.

"Make it quick!" Larson growled turning on the water.

Pretending to wash his face, A.J. drank water greedily not bothering to rinse his mouth. He then took a hand towel and clumsily blotted on the soiled spots on his shirt and jacket with it although his clothes were probably beyond saving. When Larson had slapped him, the ring on his finger had split the lower lip, which had bled quite a bit. All the while, he surreptitiously observed the items on the bathroom counter.

He was certain there was no one else in the house except for the three of them, but on the counter were some cosmetics among regular toiletries. Maybe Larson or LaRoche was using his girlfriend's home as their hideout, or maybe they were occupying the house without the owner's consent and knowledge.

"Hurry up!" Larson slapped the back of A.J.'s head with an open hand.

A.J. pounced on this break—he lurched forward and bumped into the counter acting like his knees had given out from underneath his body. As he went down, he flailed his arms and knocked the toiletries off the counter.

"Oops… Sorry…" He mumbled.

He slowly got on his hands and knees and started to pick them up.

"Enough!" Larson kicked the lipstick A.J. was reaching for and picked him up by the collar again.

"But…but…" A.J. pointed at the items scattered all over the bathroom floor as Larson dragged him back to the kitchen.

Larson and LaRoche took A.J., who was still mumbling his incoherent apology to no one in particular, to the garage and dumped him in the trunk of a car.

"Sweet dreams." LaRoche said humorlessly and slammed the lid of the trunk shut.

A.J. waited until he heard the pair get in the car and start the engine to unclench his hands balled up into fists. In the darkness, he began to straighten a pair of tweezers he had pilfered from the bathroom.

Rick had been pacing in the office for over an hour when the phone finally started to ring. He snatched up the receiver in the middle of the first ring.

"Rick Simon." He shouted into the mouthpiece.

"What did you find?" There was no need for the caller to announce who it was.

"A key."

"A key? For what?" The crook pressed for the information.

"For a coin-operated locker."

"Which locker? Where?"

"I'll tell you all about it when I see my brother alive and well."

"Listen, Simon," snarled the kidnapper, but Rick cut him off.

"No, you listen! I held my end of the bargain up and found the goddamn key. Now it's your turn to deliver. This is strictly quid pro quo—my brother for the key and the rest of the information. And he better be not only alive but in good shape, or the deal is off."

The crook must have sensed Rick had really meant it. He gave him a certain address and told him to drive up in the parking structure there in twenty minutes.

"Twenty minutes? What if there's a traffic jam on the way?" protested Rick.

"How bad do you want your brother back? Be there or else."

The crook hung up before Rick could say anything more.

Good thing that Rick had been anticipating something like this—he knew the kidnappers wouldn't give him a lot of time to drive from point A to point B so he wouldn't be able to hatch an elaborate plan for rescue or attack. Not that he could do much alone against two, possibly more, but he was as ready as ever.

"Twenty more minutes. Just hang in there," muttered he as he ran out of the office.


	6. Chapter 6

Rick pulled into the parking structure next to a now defunct grocery store. The store had closed months ago, but very little had been done to the building except the removal of the signage.

He drove at a snail's pace to be mindful of every nook and cranny. As soon as he spotted a Chrysler New Yorker—a 78 model, maybe 79—at the end of the second level, he stopped and got out of his truck cautiously.

About twenty, twenty-five yards from where Rick stood, there was a man with a semi-automatic standing in front of the New Yorker: six feet, two hundred, close-cropped salt and pepper hair. There was another man behind the car, but because the lid of the trunk was up, Rick could see only his reddish blond hair. He assumed the blond had a gun trained on A.J. in the trunk.

"About time you got here," said LaRoche. "Undo your jacket and let me see what kind of piece you got."

Rick unzipped his windbreaker and showed his .44 Magnum in the shoulder holster.

"Get your gun out of the holster slowly with your left hand and slide it over here."

Rick surrendered his firearm as instructed.

Picking up the .44, LaRoche grinned at Rick and said with a twirl of his index finger, "Now, do a slow pirouette for me."

Rick raised his hands and did a three-sixty to show he did not have a gun tucked under the waistband above the small of his back.

Satisfied with the visual inspection, LaRoche asked, "All right. Where's the key?"

Rick showed the key that was hanging from a chain around his neck to LaRoche. He also took out and unfolded a piece of paper to let the other man see a photocopy of McBride's handwriting.

"Where did you find the key?" asked LaRoche out of curiosity.

"At a dry cleaner."

"Where's the locker located?" LaRoche demanded.

"At a Greyhound depot not too far from a bar called Blue Moon."

"Did you see what was inside the locker?"

Rick nodded.

"Tell me what you found."

"Money. About a million give or take a few thousand in brand-new bills."

LaRoche nodded his approval.

"I moved it elsewhere though," added Rick.

"Okay. Let's go take a look," said LaRoche eagerly.

"Not so fast." Rick shook his head. "I wanna see my brother first."

LaRoche grimaced but saw a determined look on Rick's face and relented. He signaled Larson to bring the collateral.

Larson grabbed A.J.'s arm to pull up his limp body. "Hey, it's showtime."

A.J. didn't cooperate and let Larson lift him out of the trunk.

In order to carry the dead weight, Larson had to put his handgun in the belt holster.

As his upper body was pulled out of the trunk, A.J. plunged the shiv made of the tweezers he'd taken from the bathroom deep into the back of Larson's leg just above the knee joint.

Larson screamed in pain and let go of A.J., falling to his knees.

A.J. sprang to his feet and went for Larson's gun in the holster.

LaRoche snapped his head towards the direction of the scream. As he did, he saw in his peripheral vision Rick drop to the floor and roll a few times to seek cover behind the nearest pillar.

Leaning against the pillar, Rick reached down and unstrapped another gun, a snub-nose .38, from the ankle holster he wore above his Converse shoe. He stuck his head out and saw LaRoche standing behind the next pillar pointing his gun at the garage floor where A.J. and Larson were grappling to get the gun that had fallen out of the holster.

"A.J.!" Rick screamed as LaRoche's gun went off.

Rick squeezed the trigger of his .38 and fired off three rounds at LaRoche in quick succession.

LaRoche fired at Rick once, but his sole purpose was to buy time to make it to the stairs right behind him. He was not going to stay here—he was certain the police were on their way.

Rick poked his head out and saw LaRoche disappear in the stairwell. He immediately dismissed the fleeing man and moved swiftly towards the Chrysler.

"A.J.!" He yelled again. There was no response, but there was no gunfire aimed at him either.

He first saw his brother sitting up, his back against the concrete wall, eyes vacant. His chest tightened when he spotted dark stains on the shirtfront. Was A.J. dying or dead already? Then he saw the blond prone on the floor, unmoving. There was a small entry wound on the back.

Rick got down on his haunches and turned the body over to check on Larson's vital signs. He felt the mortally injured man's life ebbing away. His pupils were already dilated and fixated.

Rick looked at A.J. and shook his head. "There's nothing we can do."

"Why did he do that—killing his own partner?" A.J. wondered aloud, his eyes wide and fixed on Larson's body.

"To make sure that he wouldn't talk is my guess." Rick stood up and gave A.J. a hand getting on his feet. He could hear the faint siren of the approaching police cars.

When he checked his brother for any injuries, he was amazed to see how good he looked under the circumstances. Sure, he had been roughed up a bit—he had some bruises, a split lip, which explained the dried bloodstains on his clothes, abrasions on his wrists underneath the handcuffs he was still wearing, a fresh cut on his right palm, but he'd taken a more serious beating in a schoolyard fight. Heck, Rick had taken a worse beating from the bikers at Blue Moon.

"Jeez, I look a lot worse than you. Looks like I worried for nothing," said Rick to lighten the mood mussing his brother's hair.

Rick's comment rubbed A.J. the wrong way, however. "What? Are you disappointed because they didn't beat the tar out of me?"

A.J. abruptly shoved Rick away from him.

"'Course not," denied Rick, but his brother didn't seem to have heard him.

"You think I got us into this mess and deserve a trip to the woodshed? You gonna teach me a lesson yourself? Is that what you want? You wanna see me beaten to a pulp?"

A.J. suddenly flew into a rage. His entire body shook with uncontrollable fury.

Rick was alarmed but did not panic. Displaced anger, delayed shock perhaps—Rick didn't know the fancy names head shrinks might use for it, but, sadly, he remembered the signs all too well, the manifestation he'd seen countless times among combat-weary soldiers young and old in Nam.

"Knock it off, A.J.!" Rick gripped A.J.'s shoulders and shook him a couple of times. "Is that the thanks I get after everything I've been through? Huh?"

Grunting, A.J. fought to free himself from his brother's tight bear hug, but when he realized he couldn't, he stopped struggling and fell silent, breathing hard. Anger and tension dissipated gradually. When he finally calmed down, his eyes fell to the ground for a few seconds perhaps in remorse. Lifting his gaze, he told his brother in a small voice, "I'm sorry, Rick." And in a whisper, "And thank you…for saving my life."

"You're welcome," uttered Rick softly and wrapped his arm around A.J.'s shoulders to offer some comfort as he had often done since they had been young boys.

"I bet those guys underestimated you 'cause you look so harmless," said Rick jostling his brother playfully.

"Yea… Hey!"

"Guess you showed them, huh?" Rick offered A.J. a co-conspirator's smile.

"Damn straight." A.J. managed to return a shaky smile.

Together they walked out of the parking structure.

"So, did you really find the locker and the money?" asked A.J.

"Naw," replied Rick. "I was real close though."

Spent and still in daze, the brothers silently waited for the squad cars to arrive sitting on the curb side by side.

Rick and A.J. were taken to separate interview rooms at the police station to give their statements. Rick had already surrendered his firearm, and he was glad to do so because the forensic team would be able to eliminate him as the shooter who had killed Larson after the ballistics test. A.J. was finally able to have the cuffs removed and down a couple of glasses of water.

The detectives who interviewed the brothers asked them to tell the whole story repeatedly for several hours. Rick and A.J. knew it was a standard investigative technique to check the veracity of the interviewees' statements, but, for them, it was as grueling as a full-fledged marathon after the last two days of ordeal.

When Rick was finally allowed to leave the interview room, A.J. was already in the lobby making a phone call.

"Oh, he's here. We'll be there in twenty minutes at the most," said A.J. seeing his brother coming over.

"Who did you call?" Rick asked after A.J. hung up the phone.

"We're going to catch a cab, pick up and take Mom straight to the airport."

"What did you tell her?" Rick caught on and asked without missing a beat.

"Not everything, but I told her things are getting dicey because we're involved in the murder and the robbery cases, and that she should leave town for a few days until we settle this matter once and for all."

"She agree to it? Just like that?" Rick asked in amazement.

"I can be very persuasive when I'm desperate." A.J. replied dryly.

The cabbie who drove Rick and A.J. to their mother's was happy to oblige his fares' demand to 'step on it.' He made it to the destination in fifteen minutes flat and received a hefty tip from Rick.

"Wait here, and keep the motor running." A.J. told the driver and jogged to the front door.

Cecilia must have been looking out the window; she opened the door before her son knocked. She was all set and had a suitcase by her side.

"Hi, Mom."

She didn't flinch when she saw his battered face and bloodstained clothes. She only whispered, "Oh, A.J…" and hugged him. She did not ask any questions; he did not offer an explanation.

In the cab, the mother and the sons exchanged short greetings and pleasantries, but the ride to the airport was a quiet one except for the driver's one-way chatter.

At the airport, standing in a line to be served at the airline counter, Rick asked Cecilia, "So, where're you going anyway, Mom?"

"New Orleans."

"The Big Easy? French Quarter, Bourbon Street, cajun food… Boy, way to go! Have a ball, Mom," grinned Rick.

"But not too much," cautioned A.J.

"Honey, I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there." Cecilia said irritably. "The only reason I'm going is this is one of the earliest flights out of San Diego I could book."

"Nevertheless, could you please let us know when you get there?" asked A.J.

"How can I get in touch with you if I can't call you at home or at work?"

For safety reasons, the brothers intended to stay away from the places known to their adversaries.

"As soon as you check into your hotel, call Carlos," said Rick. "You still have his number, don't you?"

"At home, yes, but I didn't bring my address book with me. As you know, I had very little time to pack." Cecilia reminded her sons.

"That's okay, Mom. Here, I'll write down the phone number for you." Rick tried to be helpful and upbeat to pacify her.

After the flight to New Orleans had taken off, Rick and A.J. perused the names of the hotels near the airport at the information counter. Most of them offered courtesy shuttle service, so they decided to take the first shuttle bus available.

They didn't have to wait long—a blue and white shuttle bus arrived at the designated stop in less than five minutes. The brothers boarded the bus when all the passengers from the hotel got off. The shuttle driver seemed unnerved at the sight of Rick and A.J., who looked as though they had spent a day in a drunk tank after a brawl.

"Any luggage, sir?" He asked automatically nonetheless.

"No. We travel light," said Rick laconically.

A.J. sat down heavily on a closest seat and closed his eyes.

There were several other passengers on their way to the hotel, and they stayed clear of the seats the brothers were occupying, avoiding them like the plague. It was perfectly fine with Rick. He tried to unwind without much success while A.J. was already fast asleep by his side. He just kept staring ahead into space listening to his brother's deep, rhythmic breathing.

As soon as they checked into their hotel room, Rick sent his brother straight to the shower disregarding his loud protest.

By the time A.J. stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, there were a change of clothes from the gift shop and soft drinks and snacks from a vending machine on his bed.

"We've got to talk, Rick." A.J. demanded. "Tell me what you've found so far. Bring me up to date, will you?"

"Yeah, but we need to recharge first. We've been running on empty for a coupla days. Gotta get some rest, you and me both. Then we talk." Rick rose from his perch. "I'm gonna hit the shower. Eat something before you go to bed. Okay?"

Rick drew a bath and immersed his achy, bone-tired body in the hot water until it started to cool down. Twenty, thirty minutes later, he returned to the bedroom and found A.J. curled up on his bed asleep still clutching a half-eaten Snickers bar.

Rick took the candy bar from his brother's hand and polished it off. He grinned as he remembered doing exactly the same thing one Halloween night some twenty years ago. He shook a couple of soda cans on the nightstand; Fanta Orange was all gone, a can of root beer was half full. He considered drinking the rest of it but in the end decided he needed something stronger to take the edge off. He raided the mini bar hoping that the miniscule amount of alcohol those miniature-sized bottles held would keep his nightmares at bay.


	7. Chapter 7

A.J.'s upper body sprang up like a clown popping out of a jack-in-the-box. It took him a few moments to remember where he was.

"Bad dreams?"

He saw Rick sitting up on his bed smoking. He nodded. "Did you sleep at all?"

Rick shrugged. "Some."

Which meant 'hardly,' A.J. assumed. He saw tiny liquor bottles littering the nightstand.

"There's no point trying to go back to sleep when we can't stay asleep, is there?" said A.J. "Now that we're up, please tell me what you dug up in the last twenty-four hours."

"All right, but you go first. What did you tell the police during the interview?" asked Rick.

"Truth. What else?"

"Okay, lemme rephrase that; did they believe what you told them?"

A.J. sighed heavily. "At first, they doubted if I'd ever been held hostage. I guess I don't look too banged up. They even suggested maybe you and I had staged the whole thing."

Rick chuckled despite himself. "Oh, I can do a much better job than giving you a busted lip and a few bruises if I really apply myself to it, but I suppose you know that already."

"The kidnappers somehow knew what I'd been up to. They also believed me when I said I didn't know or have whatever they were looking for."

Rick nodded.

"Anyway, I also informed the detectives that the man who'd shot Larson had had a Secure Guard uniform on when I'd showed up at the office. The uniform had his name on it: LaRoche. I described him and asked them to call Secure Guard to check on him."

"Let me guess—there's no one by that name working for Secure Guard."

A.J. shrugged. "Close but no cigar. There is a guy named LaRoche, but my description of him didn't match, and he has an alibi—he was at work when you were exchanging gunfire with the guy I knew as LaRoche. But he's got to have someone working inside. He was at the Secure Guard compound and opened the security gate for me when I got there yesterday morning… No, make that two mornings ago."

Rick nodded again. "Yeah. And the guy who claimed to be Carlton Price had to know the real McCoy's schedule. He told you over the phone he was leaving for L.A. soon, didn't he? It turns out the real Price _is_ in L.A., but he left town a day before you got the call from the imposter."

"So, what did _you_ tell the police?" A.J. inquired.

"Truth, of course," declared Rick with a grin, which made A.J. roll his eyes. "I may have left out certain tidbits, but I didn't lie—God forbid!"

A.J. chuckled at his brother's exclamation in mock horror. "How did you figure the key was at the cleaner?"

"I didn't—it was Rosie who found it. She called when she found it in one of the pockets on your leather jacket. It sure was a lucky break for me—for us."

"Johnny McBride at Blue Moon... I knew it," whispered A.J.

"It so happens that McBride was, among other things, a pickpocket, according to the rap sheet. So, his bumping into you was no accident, I suppose. Since he was a pickpocket, it wasn't that hard for him to slip the key in your pocket with sleight of hand."

"Guess not. But why didn't he ditch it along with the money? And why did he pick me?"

"Those are the questions only he can answer," said Rick. "But my guess is, he knew he'd be able to stay alive as long as the rest of the money stayed hidden, and the last thing he wanted was the locker key falling into his former buddies' hands."

"Yeah, like Larson and LaRoche kept me alive while you were on a wild-goose chase." A.J. nodded absently. "So, you think he was killed by accident?"

"Yeah. Must have. They badly wanted to know where the money was, and they still do. Killing McBride didn't accomplish that, did it? He must have told them he'd planted something in your pocket before he died."

"He couldn't have known who I am though," said A.J. mostly to himself. "But they broke into my place right after I'd been to the police, which means…"

"They have someone who has a direct pipeline to the SDPD." Rick finished his brother's sentence. "I'd cast my vote for Taggard."

"Let's not jump to the conclusion, Rick. Being a jerk doesn't necessarily make him crooked." A.J. grinned. "So, what information did you withhold during the interrogation?"

"That Barbara gave me a copy of the case files for the heist and the murder, and that the Greyhound depot near Blue Moon is the most likely place where the money's hidden," said Rick. "But just to give them an impression that I was fully cooperating with them, I handed over the key to the detectives."

"You sure the Greyhound depot is where the money is?"

"99% positive," nodded Rick confidently. "The key's shape is right, there's Section A… But there's no A-6, and A-106 is empty. Maybe I interpreted McBride's handwriting wrong or something."

"Let me see it," demanded A.J.

He received the photocopy of Johnny McBride's memo and studied it for a while.

"It's a locker number like you say, I suppose, but I don't think it means A-6."

"But it says…"

"A-c-i-x, yes. Let me ask you this: do you ever spell out a number when you're taking notes? Here. Let me rewrite this for you."

Rick watched his brother write in neat block letters A-CIX just below McBride's handwritten memo. He stared at it for several seconds then, suddenly, slapped his forehead.

"Roman numerals?"

A.J. nodded. "Yeah, that's what I think. A-109."

"Damn, I _was_ close—I was only three off!" Rick was getting pumped up again and rose to his feet. "Okay. Let's go then."

"Go where?" asked A.J.

"To the Greyhound station. Haven't you been listening?"

"But for what? You said you'd handed over the locker key to the police."

"Well, I did. What I didn't tell them is that I made a copy of it."

Rick produced a small key from his breast pocket and tossed it to his brother.

"Rick, it's illegal to duplicate this key. Didn't you read the inscription?" admonished A.J. in exasperation.

"It's also illegal to go over speed limits, but you do that every now and then," retorted Rick with a grin.

"Are we going to take a cab to the depot?"

"Nope. I called Carlos before you woke up. He's going to let us use his car for a while, and he'll pick up and hide ours."

"Is he also getting us the usual supplies?"

"Yup, the works. Hurry up and put your clothes on. He must be waiting for us downstairs by now."

"I hope he has better taste in selecting clothes for us," grumbled A.J. putting on a loud 'I-heart-San Diego' T-shirt from the hotel's gift shop.

Rick and A.J. sauntered into the Greyhound depot. Though it was still early in the morning before dawn, the place was bustling with the passengers who had just arrived from Las Vegas. Though Rick had told the LaRoche imposter about this location, the brothers figured he and his accomplices would lose interest once they found A-106 empty. And there was a good chance that he believed the money had been moved.

The Simons brothers proceeded to the locker area unhurriedly. As the older Simon prepared to open the locker A-109, the younger one stood nearby keeping an eye out.

Rick inserted the key and turned it ever so slowly. There was a faint click, and the locker opened with ease. In it was a large duffle bag that had seen better days. Before removing it from its hiding place, he unzipped the bag halfway down. There were small rectangular bundles neatly wrapped in brown paper. The covering on one of the bundles was partially torn revealing a stack of new one-hundred-dollar bills.

Rick zipped up the duffle bag and gave his brother a slight nod. A.J. moved closer while Rick was lifting the heavy bag out of the locker with a grunt.

"Now what?" A.J. asked looking around casually as though they were talking about their sightseeing plan.

"We can't give this to Taggard, for sure," said Rick. "You know what'd happen if we did. Besides, it may contain some incriminating evidence, and the mastermind would definitely skip town if he got a whiff that the police got the money."

Rick was hoping to get the satisfaction of nailing the guy who had put him and A.J. through two days of hell. This case had become very, very personal.

A.J. nodded. "All right." He looked up at his brother and grinned like a kid with some mischief on his mind. "Wanna go fishing then?"

The security guard looked up from the sports page of the newspaper and saw two men in suits entering the Secure Guard reception area. He took a quick look at the clock—it was not yet six in the morning.

"May I help you?"

"Morning. I'm Lt. Taggard," said the taller of the two flashing a badge. "This is my partner, Lt. Forsythe."

The guard studied the detectives' faces suspiciously. Although Taggard had a pair of sunglasses on, he couldn't hide all the facial injuries, and Forsythe also showed some signs of a recent altercation.

"I hope you caught the guy who beat you up that bad," said the guard tactfully.

"Oh, yeah. It took several of us to subdue him, but we got him," said Rick with a woeful sigh. "He's built like this." He indicated a shape about the size of an industrial refrigerator.

That got the guard chuckling. "What can I do for you?"

"We're investigating two recent homicide cases, and we have some evidence that they may be connected to the robbery of the new bills from the Treasury about a month ago. The robbery investigation team collected some evidentiary materials from the armored car, but we'd like to get additional photographs of the car if you don't mind." Rick showed a camera he was carrying to the guard. As usual, his act was smooth and convincing. "Would you mind showing us which one?"

"That shouldn't be too difficult. Just a sec." The guard reached down and lifted a hefty logbook from the desk drawer. "It was about a month ago, did you say?"

"Yeah." Rick took out a notebook and rattle off the date, the operators' names, the vehicle number and so forth. He had found the information in the case file that Barbara had given him.

The guard picked up the phone and called the answering service informing that he'd be away from his desk for a few minutes to assist a couple of police detectives.

As the guard was about to leave his post, A.J. spoke up for the first time. "Excuse me. May I use the restroom?"

"Oh, sure. It's down the hallway on your right."

A.J. thanked him and headed for the hallway in a hurry.

"I'll meet you outside, okay?" said Rick.

"I can wait till your partner comes back," offered the guard.

"It could be a while…" Rick quickly checked the name on the guard's uniform, "Mr. Harris."

"Jim." The guard smiled. "Is he a little under the weather? He kinda looks green around the gills." He tried to catch up with Rick, who was already walking away from the reception desk.

"Yeah, in a sense," grinned Rick. "We went out for a drink last night, and I'm afraid he had one too many."

"Oh, figures. How many did he have?"

"One," said Rick straight-faced holding up his forefinger.

A.J. heard the two men leave the building laughing boisterously and started looking for the administrative office.

The office was not locked, but the drawer containing the employees' personal information was; however, it did not take A.J. long to pick the lock. He quickly went through the hanging folders in the cabinet. Paul LaRoche's file was the third one under L, and it had more paperwork than A.J. had expected to find: W-4, a copy of his employment application form with references, copies of application forms for medical, life and other insurances, criminal background check, performance reviews…

He took out a micro-camera and began taking a picture of each document.

In the vast garage, Jim the guard checked on the vehicle ID numbers looking for the one that Rick had requested.

"Oh, there it is!" He beamed at Rick. "Take your time, Lieutenant. I'll go back in and bring your…"

"Excuse me, Jim." Rick interrupted the guard. "But could you unlock the doors so I can take pictures of the interior as well?"

"Um, sure."

Jim ambled to one side of the garage near the back. There was a locked key cabinet mounted on the wall. Moving his finger over the labels, he recited the vehicle number he was looking for under his breath.

When the guard returned to the vehicle and unlocked the doors, Rick asked him, "Now, could you stand by the driver-side door while I take a picture so that we can get some sense of size and perspective?"

And the requests kept coming one after another during the photo session: "All right, point the lock on the door at the back for me." "Can you sit straight in the driver seat?"

Jim groaned inwardly. Taggard was nice enough a guy, but he was as demanding as his nagging, overbearing ex-wife.

A.J. closed the door of the administrative office and was ready to join Rick in the annex when he heard someone coming through the entrance door. He moved down the hallway stealthily and slipped into the restroom as quietly as possible. He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. For good measure, he flushed one of the toilets before going back to the lobby.

The guard was back in his chair checking on the messages with the answering service. He looked up as A.J. passed by his desk.

"Your partner's done with the pictures, Lieutenant."

"Thank you."

"He told me you have a hangover," said Jim with sympathy in his voice. "One of the remedies that really works for me is pickle juice."

"Pickle juice? Am I supposed to drink it?"

"Yes, sir."

A.J. found it vile but tried not to grimace. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the information."

Watching the detective make a hasty retreat, Jim shook his head with a hint of smile. It had been no small feat to keep a straight face when the poor fellow had paled at the thought of drinking pickle juice. He wondered how Forsythe had survived in the law enforcement career where drinking was very much part of its culture. Seeing the two detectives get in their LTD Crown Vic and go through the security gate, his focus returned to the sports section to check on the last night's scores.

Back in the hotel room, Rick and A.J. developed the film right away using the bathroom as their makeshift darkroom. Once the prints were done, the brothers painstakingly went through the documents from LaRoche's file sitting cross-legged on one of the beds.

Rick was about to move on to another document when a familiar name on the application form caught his eye.

"A.J.?"

"Hmm?"

"What was the name of the PO for McBride and Larson?"

A.J. looked up from LaRoche's performance reviews. "Sean Hanrahan. Why?"

"He's listed as one of the references on the application."

"LaRoche and Hanrahan know each other?" asked A.J., his eyes shining with excitement.

"Oh, it's more than that," grinned Rick. "They're family."

"I'll be…"

They got quiet for a long time processing the new piece of information.

"You know, that explains a lot of things, but we need more background information to be sure," said A.J. after a stretch of silence.

"Let's not beat around the bush, A.J. We may not have a lot of time left to nab this guy, and the things are getting hairy for us."

"What are you suggesting?" A.J. narrowed his eyes.

"Well, you know the old saying about a friend in need," said Rick.

"You want me to do _what_?" Barbara raised her head as well as her voice when she heard the Simon brothers' request.

"Shh! Not so loud," cautioned Rick.

"No way! There's no way that I'm gonna do that. You've been asking me too many favors as of late. If the brass gets a whiff of it, shit's gonna hit the fan! You know I'm not on the investigative team."

She sat up straight in her chair and glowered at Rick.

Rick nudged A.J. prompting him to pitch in.

"But, Barbara, we can't trust anyone else in the department," pleaded A.J.

"I have bent so many rules too many times already. And if something happens—busting this case, or something going awry—official inquiries will follow, and my superiors will know who leaked the information to you guys. Either way, it'll be my ass that ends up in a sling."

"They're not going to hear it from us," said A.J. earnestly gazing into her eyes. "Please, Barbara. Don't make me beg."

After a few moments, she looked away and said testily, "Damn you, A.J.! Why do you have to look so cute and helpless when you're groveling?"

"Barbara!" Cut to the quick by her remark, A.J. started whining, but Rick elbowed him to shut him up. "Join the club, Barbie. Mom can't resist his groveling either."

Both Barbara and A.J. shot him a reproachful glare. She looked the older Simon squarely in the eye and said, "You know, Rick, I truly wish your brother was more like you." She saw a smug smile on his lips. "If he was half as obnoxious as you, I wouldn't feel so guilty to say 'no' to him—it feels like kicking a lost puppy, damn it! And don't call me Barbie!"

Despite her vehement grievance, Barbara's fingers began flying over the computer keyboard.


	8. Chapter 8

Rick and A.J. parked their car a few blocks away from Sean Hanrahan's apartment. They had called his home, but no one had answered, so they assumed it was safe to enter the premises.

It was a modest apartment, and the brothers had learned Hanrahan drove an eight-year-old Pontiac. There was nothing to indicate opulence, or conspicuous consumption, just the way one would imagine a humble parole officer's life should be.

Rick and A.J. gained entry to the PO's residence in under thirty seconds. They found beer cans, pizza boxes—things often associated with the lifestyle of a single man—on the coffee table, but they soon detected something was off.

There was very little lived-in feel in the place: no dishes in the sink or on the rack, no dirty clothes in the hamper or on the floor. The refrigerator was nearly empty and had no beers, which Rick considered as one of the major food groups. The water level in the toilet bowl was significantly lower than the ring of mineral buildup around the bowl. Just to be sure, the brothers flushed the toilet, and the water level came up to the ring. They assumed it hadn't been used at least several days.

"This is kind of strange, isn't it?" muttered A.J. "The mail and newspaper have been picked up, but it doesn't seem that he's been reading much."

Rick nodded. "And the guy doesn't have much of wardrobe to speak of. He makes me feel like a clotheshorse."

A.J. snickered at his brother's comment as he kept poking around.

After ten, fifteen minutes of search, they concluded that Hanrahan had another place to live therefore the apartment did not hold anything significant to be discovered.

"One down, one more to go," mumbled Rick.

They had badgered Barbara into digging up, among other things, the background information on Hanrahan and LaRoche and hit pay dirt. They had learned that those two were not just distant relatives but half brothers. Paul LaRoche Jr. inherited the home of his late father, Paul LaRoche Sr. The Simons were certain Hanrahan frequented his brother's residence. The information also had led them to believe that the half brothers had orchestrated not only the Secure Guard heist but also a string of unsolved armed robberies.

LaRoche's home was within a short distance from Hanrahan's apartment. Rick and A.J. took the same precautions to be sure no one was home.

Rick entered the house first through the kitchen door at the back. After taking several steps, he noticed A.J. hadn't moved at all.

"A.J.?" He turned around to see what his brother was up to.

A.J. was still standing at the door. He had turned white as a sheet and seemed to have trouble breathing. He was having a panic attack, Rick realized.

"Hey, are you alright?" asked Rick placing his hand on his brother's shoulder.

Unable to trust his own voice, A.J. only nodded.

"Is this the place where Larson and the other guy held you hostage?"

Another nod.

"Why don't you sit this one out? I can…"

This time A.J. shook his head. "No… I'll be all right. Just give me a minute."

"Take your time."

Rick, like many wartime veterans, had the first-hand knowledge of flashbacks after a traumatic event and then some. Sometimes, something as benign as a certain smell, or touch could trigger anxiety, panic, fear that would immobilize you.

His younger brother was a lot tougher than he looked though. Several moments later, some color returned to his face, and his breathing slowed to the normal rate, but he understandably remained edgy throughout the search. Walking down the hallway, he averted his eyes from one of the doors that, Rick assumed, led to the basement.

Rick knew A.J. had formed an aversion to dark places, or more precisely, being confined in a small, dark place since he and Jimmy Cortez had locked him up in the basement of Jimmy's home as a prank then forgotten about him for an hour or two. A.J. had been no more than five or six back then. With a pang of guilt, Rick remembered a series of nightmares his little brother had had after the incident.

Rick kept a close eye on A.J., but he looked more relaxed as they walked into the living room.

There was a book of yellow pages on the coffee table along with a memo pad and a pen. The phone book was open, showing the section Hanrahan and/or LaRoche had gone through: airlines. What time was their flight? Or, had it taken off already? Unfortunately, the top sheet of the notebook was virginal with no indentation.

Rick picked up the phone receiver and dialed Hanrahan's office number. "Hello, this is Lt. Taggard, Homicide," he told the receptionist. "I'd like to speak to Sean Hanrahan please."

He was put on hold, but the receptionist came back on the line soon, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. He's out of the office for early lunch."

Rick checked the time: almost eleven o'clock. "Do you have any idea what time he'll be back?"

"I'm afraid he's gone for the day, sir. He mentioned that he's going to check on some of the men he's overseeing after lunch."

Rick thanked the receptionist and hung up the phone.

"He actually reported to work today?" asked A.J.

"Yeah. It's a smart move when you think about it. If he skips town or calls in sick, there is a good chance of his office looking into his disappearance or checking on him. But this guy shows up at work, takes alleged early lunch and tells everyone he's meeting with his parolees for the remainder of the day. Since it's Friday, no one will notice he's gone until at least Monday."

"Yeah. By the time they realize something is amiss, he'll be in a country with no extradition treaties with the U.S.," agreed A.J. "Let's hope he's still at the airport."

The most frustrating part though was that the police had nothing on Hanrahan to keep him from leaving the country, let alone make an arrest at the moment.

They took the phone book with them and made good use of the mobile telephone in the LTD Crown Victoria.

"Hello, this is Sean Hanrahan. I made a reservation for a flight scheduled for this afternoon, but I misplaced the flight information." A.J. called one airline after another using the same ploy. On the third or fourth attempt, he flashed an okay sign.

"His flight takes off at 12:35." He informed Rick hanging up the phone. "How fast can you drive?"

Rick drove straight to the departure level and raced into the airport terminal with his brother.

A.J. found Hanrahan standing in a waiting line at one of the airline counters like any other air traveler. Rick was able to identify LaRoche in another waiting line. He and A.J. had seen his photo in his personal file.

At the moment, the Simon brothers weren't certain if the felonious siblings were traveling together, or going separate ways. One way or the other, they had to be stopped before boarding their flight. Rick and A.J. huddled for a quick strategic meeting.

Taking a few more steps towards the counter, Hanrahan counted the people in front of him again: three more. In less than an hour, he'd be taking off, and no one would be able to touch him.

As he moved a little closer to the counter, he saw two men approaching. His entire body tensed seeing one of them was an airport security guard. The other was a tall man with a cowboy hat and a mustache. The Hat pointed his finger at him and declared, "That's him!"

Hanrahan tried to act surprised. "Excuse me, sir. What seems to be the problem?"

"I'm telling you, that's my suitcase. He stole it while I was paying the cabdriver outside." Rick told the security guard.

"That's absurd. This is mine, and as you can see, it has my name tag," said Hanrahan dismissively.

"He could have put it and locked the suitcase after he stole it." Rick was dogged. Seeing a sign of confusion on the guard's face, he insisted, "Ask him to open it. I can tell you exactly what's inside."

Opening the suitcase was the last thing Hanrahan wanted to do, especially in front of the authorities. He suddenly found himself caught between a rock and a hard place, but in order to buy more time, he reluctantly agreed to unlock the suitcase only in a place somewhere away from the crowd.

"I can assure you we can resolve this in no time, and you don't have to worry about missing your flight, sir." The guard tried to mollify Hanrahan as he led him and Rick toward the office of Airport Security Department.

Just then, Hanrahan saw another guard speaking to his brother a couple of counters away. The color drained from his face when he recognized the man beside them—it was the PI he had seen at the police station, the one that should have been dead instead of Larson.

When he caught his brother, Paul, glancing at him, he saw an understanding in his eyes. They simultaneously sprang into action.

LaRoche swung his heavy suitcase and hit the guard squarely in the chest. As he fell, the guard took A.J. with him. LaRoche darted out of the crowd trying to exit the terminal.

Like his brother, Hanrahan also took a swing with his suitcase but missed everything because the guard and Rick jumped back in time. He flung his luggage at them and raced deep into the terminal, away from Paul.

A.J. went after LaRoche while Rick pursued Hanrahan.

LaRoche shoved several travelers out of his way and ran out of the departure terminal. As he retraced his way to the parking structure where he had left his car, he took a backward glance and saw the blond man, who had shown up with the airport security guard, at his heels, pushing the glass door open. He reached for his Luger in the shoulder holster.

"He's got a gun!"

Someone in the crowd saw LaRoche withdrawing the Luger and screamed. The people around him scattered screaming and shouting.

A.J. too saw the gun in LaRoche's hand. To make matters worse, there were a young girl and her mother right in front of him, standing directly in the line of fire.

"Get down!"

He pushed them down on the floor and threw his body over them, but instead of a gunshot, he heard the screeching of tires then the sound of impact. More screams ensued.

A.J. lifted his head and saw an elderly man getting out of his car.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" He was repeating it over and over. "I couldn't… I couldn't stop in time! He was standing in the middle of the road!"

A.J. instantly understood what had happened. With people fleeing in every which direction, the old man tried to avoid running over one or more of the people darting into his lane, lost control of his car and hit LaRoche.

A.J. quickly got up and checked on LaRoche, who was lying still on the pavement. He detected a pulse, and there was not a lot of bleeding he could see. That did not exclude internal injuries though. He picked up the Luger and tucked it under the belt.

"Someone, please call 911!" He shouted.

Before going back inside, A.J. approached the elderly driver. "Sir, I'd like you to know it wasn't your fault," he spoke to him gently. "I'll be your witness, so don't worry about it. Okay?"

The old man nodded feebly.

"But I want to have you looked over by a paramedic when an ambulance gets here just in case. Why don't you sit down while you wait, sir?"

He helped him sit in the driver seat. He made doubly sure that the old man was not exhibiting any signs of a cardiac episode and ran back inside.

Hanrahan took another glance back—the Hat was still on his tail. By then he knew for sure the man behind him was the other Simon. He cursed himself for not packing heat, disregarding his brother's repeated warning. He had been too cocky; he knew that now. Running down the concourse, he desperately looked for a way out.

Rick was gaining on Hanrahan although he had to navigate himself in a stream of passengers and airport staff. He was confident he could easily outrun a pencil pusher like him, but trying not to trample little rug rats or knock over old ladies at full throttle was hard to do. In order to avoid a collision with a baby stroller, he sidestepped at the last second. When he looked up again, he saw Hanrahan making a beeline for a woman opening a large package of some food supplies for a newsstand. She was holding a box cutter.

Hanrahan grabbed the oriental woman from behind. He was so quick she had no time to scream. He put a chokehold on her and took the box cutter from her hand. He loosened the hold a little to press the knife on her jugular and yelled, "Don't come any closer!"

"Don't do anything foolish!" Heeding the warning, Rick yelled back. "There's no way out. In no time, this place will be swarming with the police, SWAT sharpshooters to say the least. Don't make it any worse."

Hanrahan shook his head. "Give me you gun—I know you carry one. Or more."

The Asian woman was whimpering something in her tongue, which needed no translation to understand.

"Tell you what," Rick had to think fast. "I'll give you my gun if you let her go."

"No deal."

"No, let me finish—I'll slide my gun to you and then lie down spread-eagle while you pick it up and release her. I'll be your hostage."

By then, the people around them had realized what was going on, and the foot traffic had halted. In the corner of his eye, Rick saw a couple of security guards running towards him.

"Stay back!" Rick warned the guards. "He has a weapon. Let me handle this." He turned his eyes back to Hanrahan. "Make up your mind. You don't have much time left before the cavalry gets here."

"All right." Hanrahan finally agreed. "Give me your gun, and no funny business."

Rick slowly removed a Smith & Wesson revolver, a loaner from Carlos, from the holster and slid it on the carpeted floor to Hanrahan's feet. He then got down on his knees and lay flat on his stomach, limbs stretched out.

Holding the box cutter steadily on the woman's throat, Hanrahan reached down with the other hand to pick up the revolver. He cautiously advanced towards the PI with the gun in his hand dragging the woman along.

"On your knees and hands behind the back of your head."

Rick assumed the required position. Hanrahan was standing only several feet away from him. "Come on, man. Let her go."

After a moment or two, Hanrahan released the woman from the hold and shoved her. She took a few wobbly steps forward but stopped and turned around not fully understanding what had happened. Rick gave her a slight nod. Suddenly, she started running with an ear-piercing scream.

Hanrahan aimed the revolver at Rick's head. "On your feet. Slowly."

As Rick began to rise, someone in the crowd shouted, "Hanrahan!"

Like most people, Hanrahan could not help reacting to his own name; his concentration wavered for a nanosecond, but that was all that Rick needed. He pounced and grabbed hold the hand that held the Smith & Wesson.

While Rick and Hanrahan were struggling to regain control of the revolver, A.J. materialized seemingly out of nowhere pointing a gun. "Drop it, Hanrahan!"

Hanrahan recognized Paul's Luger right away and knew it was all over. As he let go of the revolver, the two guards rushed over and handcuffed him.

"You okay?" asked A.J.

"Yeah…" Rick was still breathing hard. "Did you get LaRoche?"

A.J. nodded. "He's not going anywhere soon."

The brothers and the guards led Hanrahan back to the terminal entrance to turn him over to the police.

Back in the airline counter area, Rick noticed Hanrahan's luggage was still lying on the floor where it had landed. He picked the lock on the suitcase with ease. When it was opened, everyone around him gasped. It was packed with used bills—mostly twenties and fifties—under a single layer of clothes.

"Well, what do you know," drawled Rick. "This is not mine after all."

He turned to Hanrahan, who was standing between the two security guards. "Please accept my sincerest apologies."

Rick calmly rose to his feet and punched Hanrahan in the face.


	9. Chapter 9

Rick and A.J. were debating what to have for supper when they heard a tapping sound coming from the patio. They were hesitant to answer the door after the media frenzy that had followed the arrests of Hanrahan and LaRoche at the airport. Even Rick, who usually craved and sought out media attention, was getting weary after three days of high anxiety and stress with little rest.

"A.J.! Rick! I know you're in there! Don't shut me out!"

It was Barbara. A.J. unlocked the French doors and let her in.

"Hi, Barbara. How nice to see you. What brought you here?"

"I just wanted to see my famous boyfriend. You're all over the news!"

"He's not your boyfriend." Rick reminded her. "You guys are not dating."

"Don't be so technical," pouted Barbara. "After all, he is my friend, and he has, you know…"

"Barbara!" A.J. squawked.

"…a Y chromosome." She innocently batted her eyelashes at red-faced A.J.

Rick couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Anyway, I thought you might want to know what happened after Hanrahan and LaRoche got arrested," said Barbara as Rick's laughter tapered off.

Naturally, the Simons did. She helped herself with a can of beer from the fridge and sat next to A.J. on the couch.

"First of all, Hanrahan's arraignment is scheduled for Monday. LaRoche underwent surgery this afternoon and is in serious but stable condition. Jerome Lieberman, the man who allegedly kidnapped you and shot Larson was arrested in Port Angeles, Washington, where he was attempting to leave for Victoria, B.C. by ferry. Our team picked up three more men in a sweep for several armed robbery charges. More arrests are likely to follow."

"That's a good start," said Rick.

"Or, a promising beginning of the end," remarked A.J. "Are they talking?"

"Last I heard, LaRoche was still in Recovery Room, unable to speak, not coherently anyway, and Hanrahan lawyered up."

Barbara saw disappointment on the brothers' faces and grinned, "But one of the three other guys is a weak link and willing to talk."

She was rewarded with A.J.'s dazzling smile. "So, how did you figure out who was running the crime ring?"

"We have our sources."

A.J. replied without giving a real answer with more substance. Barbara was a good friend of the brothers', but she was a cop nevertheless and didn't have to know about their little maneuvers that could be deemed illegal for her own protection. She perfectly understood what he hadn't said and didn't pursue it any further.

"It was a slick and efficient operation while it lasted, wasn't it?" said Rick. "Hanrahan could cherry-pick ex-cons most suitable for their outfit from his case files, and LaRoche had the inside info on the Secure Guard's clients."

"Hanrahan and LaRoche's men were able to rob those clients so easily because they knew precisely when to hit," added A.J. "LaRoche worked in the Secure Guard administration office and knew which business was ready to have a large amount of cash picked up by the company's armored vehicle."

"Remember LaRoche's sealed juvie record that I dug up?" asked Barbara. "According to Henry Tran, the guy that's cooperating, LaRoche and Lieberman go way back—they've known each other since their stay at a juvenile detention center. They recruited the rest of the gang, and Hanrahan never had direct contact with the pawns though they knew the existence of the Big Boss."

"Nice insurance policy," Rick remarked. "Devious, isn't he?"

"It takes one to know one," piped up A.J.

Barbara rolled her eyes. "Will you please spare me your comedy routine? Anyway, as I was saying, Tran's eager to talk 'cause he wants to distance himself from the team that robbed the armored vehicle."

"And from the crooks who kidnapped A.J. and killed Larson, right?" said Rick. "Though Larson _was_ one of the crooks who pulled off the heist, I assume."

"Yeah. Tran says McBride wanted out because Larson and Lieberman were too violent and scared him."

"The driver of the armored car got shot in the leg, didn't he?" Rick remembered some details in the case file.

A.J. recalled McBride's haunting eyes. _So, he stole the money not for himself but to turn it in_, he realized and once again felt ashamed for passing undeserving judgment on him. "When Larson arrived at his buddy's place for an alleged poker game, I bet McBride was still very much alive in the trunk of his car, but he got carried away while torturing the wretched soul to find out where the money was."

"You know, robbing Secure Guard's armored car was their first mistake. We never woulda paid attention to the outfit if the gang had hit only its clients," said Rick.

Barbara agreed nodding her head, "Yeah. I guess they got greedy."

"The second mistake was more baffling though," said A.J. "LaRoche was in the know, but why did they steal the money they couldn't spend?"

Barbara grinned at the brothers. "Tran actually told the investigators about that." She snickered. "It was a clerical error."

Rick and A.J. looked at her with a puzzled expression on their faces.

"Someone at the Treasury Department mistakenly described the cargo in the paperwork as 'used' bills initially, but a few hours before the transfer, they caught the error and called Secure Guard to notify the change."

"Where was LaRoche when the call came in?" asked Rick.

"In a dentist chair having a root canal. He took a half-day off that day." Barbara paused remembering something.

"Speaking of the armored car heist, there's something that's puzzling the investigative team," she frowned. "They searched the suspects' homes and found a duffle bag containing about a million dollars at Hanrahan's."

"Yeah, the money stolen from Secure Guard's armored car." Rick nodded. "Or, so we can speculate."

"The thing is, Hanrahan swears up and down that it was planted, but when we press for more information, he clams up. He seems as flummoxed and frustrated as we are." Barbara eyed Rick carefully to study his reaction. "Do you know anything about it?"

"'Course not. Why do you ask?"

Rick's Cheshire cat grin was hardly a solid endorsement for his claim of innocence, but he didn't care.

"I gave what's-his-name, Lieberman, the information as to where to find the money before the shoot-out. How the money ended up in Hanrahan's hand is anybody's guess."

Barbara took a quick peek at A.J. He was either enjoying or in awe of his prankster brother's prowess.

"I couldn't figure out why the gang wanted the million they couldn't spend back so bad until Hanrahan and LaRoche surfaced in our investigation. Then all of a sudden it dawned on me—it's not that they wanted it; they didn't want the police to find what is _on_ it." Rick continued.

"Fingerprints." Barbara easily came up with the answer.

A.J. nodded his head. "Yeah, that's what we think. Both Hanrahan and LaRoche submitted their fingerprints for background check for their jobs, and because the stolen money was unused currency directly from the Treasury, they'd never be able to explain their way out once their prints were found on it."

"O-okay, but Hanrahan doesn't strike me as a dumb crook. You're telling me he's stupid enough to leave a damning piece of evidence behind in a place where the police are sure to look?"

"Hey, don't blame me for somebody else's stupidity." Rick tried to act offended by what she was insinuating.

He knew that Hanrahan knew he had planted the money, but he was absolutely sure the ringleader of the crime spree wouldn't and couldn't tell that to the authorities. They hadn't officially been introduced to each other, and before his arrest, Hanrahan and A.J. had met only once briefly. If he pointed the finger at the brothers, who were supposedly strangers, he'd have a hard time explaining how he had obtained so much information about them and why he thought they'd framed him. It would be as good—or bad—as confessing to A.J.'s kidnapping, which would lead to McBride's case and back to the robbery.

"So, that's your story, and you're stickin' to it?" asked Barbara.

"You got it!" Rick didn't bother hiding his smirk.

Barbara glanced at A.J. He shrugged his shoulders and grinned a 'that's-my-big-brother's-doing-not-mine' grin.

She couldn't help smiling herself though she sometimes found these two clowns aggravating as hell. When you were with them, however, there was no dull moment.

Eventually, Rick and A.J. resumed their discussion on the dining plan, and they cordially invited Barbara for dinner. During their lively debate, the phone rang.

Rick sighed before picking up the receiver assuming it was another call from some local TV station.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Rick!"

To his surprise, it was his mother—his very elated mother by the sound of her voice.

"Mom! How'd you know we're here?"

A.J. came up to the kitchen counter to listen in on the conversation.

"Honey, I saw you and A.J. on the evening news!" said Cecilia excitedly. "Besides, Carlos told me I could reach you at home. You two are famous!"

"Don't get too excited, Mom," chided A.J. "It's just a fifteen-minute thing—the media people will soon find some other darling."

"Fifteen-minute fame, my foot! Carlos said all the local channels are still airing your interviews. And I caught a clip of the footage here on the national news!"

She was bursting with maternal pride of having two famous sons.

Rick and A.J. exchanged a certain look—it was no use trying to talk some sense into her right now when she was so giddy. Over their mother's chatter, they heard a knock on her door.

"Come in," said she.

Cecilia Simon's famous sons heard the greetings between her and an unknown male.

"Boys, I'd like you to say 'hello' to Nigel. We met while boarding the plane—we were seated next to each other across the aisle. He's from London and on a ten-week vacation. Isn't that something? He's already been to Australia, New Zealand and Thailand. On the West Coast, he's visited Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego!" She sounded like a high-school girl who had a big crush on a new kid. "Here he is."

"G'day, lads." Nigel's accent made it sound like 'G'die.' "Your mum and I saw you on telly. For some reason, you seemed vaguely familiar. 'Ave we met before?"

"Funny you mentioned that—you sound vaguely familiar," said Rick.

"Oh, excuse me, Rick." Cecilia was back on the phone. "I almost forgot—we should be going. Our guide is to meet us downstairs in five minutes."

"Your guide? Where're you going, Mom?" asked A.J.

"We're going on a nighttime city tour!" announced Cecilia with a giggle. "I'll see you in a few days, boys. Bye!"

"Mom?" Rick wanted to ask her a few more questions about her new friend, but she was gone.

"Hey, Rick? Do you think this Nigel fellow is…?"

The brothers stared at each other for several seconds.

"Naw!"

With a shake of their heads, they simultaneously dismissed their sneaking suspicion.


	10. Chapter 10

**EPILOGUE**

A.J. went to the county courthouse on the day of Sean Hanrahan's arraignment. It was not revenge or spite that motivated him, but he was compelled to be there for Johnny McBride. He just felt sorry for him because his parents were now both deceased, and no family member of his would be present in court.

A.J. was a little surprised, but not shocked, when Hanrahan pleaded guilty to all the charges including armed robberies, voluntary manslaughter of Johnny McBride, second-degree murder of Craig Larson and kidnapping of one Andrew Simon. The prosecutors and the defense attorneys must have made a plea bargain to take the capital punishment off the table.

On one hand, A.J. was relieved he wouldn't have to testify in court, but on the other hand, he was sorry that no one, except for a handful of individuals, would learn who Johnny was and how he had died without a trial. He'd be another nobody, just a name in the police and the court records.

When he left the courtroom, A.J. was surprised to see Rick entering the courthouse with a woman he'd never seen.

"Hey, A.J.!" Rick waved. "Everything okay?"

A.J. nodded. "Hanrahan pled guilty." He waited for Rick to introduce him to his companion.

"Joan, this is my brother, A.J. A.J., this is Mrs. Joan Paremski."

As A.J. wondered why his brother had brought her to meet him, Rick said, "She's Johnny's sister."

A.J. was stunned. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mrs. Paremski, but I thought Johnny had no family."

"The police didn't know where to reach me right away because our parents passed away so many years ago, and that I don't use my maiden name and now live in Chicago."

Joan smiled a sad smile. Her speech had a beautiful southern lilt.

"I'm afraid you just missed Hanrahan's arraignment, Mrs. Par…"

"I didn't come here for that, Mr. Simon. I just wanted to thank you."

The unexpected words of gratitude caught A.J. by surprise. "Thank me?"

"After our parents passed, just about everyone gave upon Johnny: friends, college, rehab counselors, the police… I almost did. But you didn't—that's what your brother and a female officer at the San Diego police told me. You didn't let go even after Johnny was gone. I cannot tell you how much it means to me…and to Johnny."

A.J. simply nodded for acknowledgement.

"Johnny was such a bright boy and showed exceptional aptitude for science and math at a very young age. Our parents were so proud of him when he was accepted to MIT."

"MIT?" Rick couldn't hide his amazement. "Any parents would be proud to have a son attending MIT."

"He was on Dean's List in the first year. Then during his sophomore year, he started failing classes…" Her eyes were full of pain and downcast.

"Drugs?" asked Rick bluntly.

"Yes," said she sotto voce. "When he was lucid, he absolutely hated what addiction had done to him, to his family and friends, but he wasn't strong enough to beat it."

Rick and A.J. wondered what sort of brilliant career Johnny might have had had he stayed clean.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," reiterated A.J.

Joan shook her head. "He had his shot at life… No, he had several shots at it with his family and friends behind him, but he blew it."

She seemed sorrowful yet serene. Her understated grief broke A.J.'s heart.

"I just wanted to thank you—both of you—in person before I take Johnny home, to Greensboro, South Carolina, where our parents are buried."

Joan was poised and at peace with herself. "I can see you two are very close," said she regarding the two brothers before her.

"I loved Johnny—we all did, but there's a huge age gap between us, and I was more like his second mother, or aunt than his sister growing up. Sometimes I wonder…" She trailed off lost in the old memories and introspection.

When she returned to the present, she smiled at Rick and A.J. "You two are so lucky to have each other, to have someone to lean on."

A.J. just nodded; there was nothing needed to be said.

"Yeah, my brother keeps me on the straight and narrow," said Rick with a subdued smile.

After a long embrace with each investigator and prolonged good-byes, Joan left the courthouse holding her head high.

"There goes one tough lady," sighed Rick with admiration.

"As tough as Scarlett O'Hara," agreed A.J. "Too bad Johnny wasn't."

"You know, A.J., I hate to admit it, but I'm glad you stuck to this case."

"Me too. But I couldn't have solved it without you. As a matter of fact, you did most of the legwork," said A.J. graciously.

"That's true." Rick wasn't exactly what one would call a humble man. "Come to think of it, if I hadn't called you from Blue Moon the other night, you'd never have had a chance to get involved in the first place."

"Don't push it, Rick." A.J. gave his brother a look of annoyance.

As they stepped outside the courthouse, A.J. went one direction, and Rick, the opposite.

"Rick? Where do you think you're going? Aren't you going back to the office?"

"Yeah, but I parked my truck over there."

"You _drove_ four city blocks?" A.J. rolled his eyes.

"I was driving Mrs. Paremski, and she was anxious to meet you here."

A.J. knew it was just an excuse. It would take much longer to find a parking space in the vicinity of the building than to walk four blocks. Still, he changed the course of direction to follow his brother shaking his head.

Passing by a police car parked in front of the courthouse, the brothers almost jumped with a start when they heard someone in the backseat shout, "Well, well, well. Here come the Simons!"

The biker with a crooked nose they had met at Blue Moon was in the backseat, his wrists in handcuffs.

"Hammer! You're finally slinking back to the hole you crawled out of, I see," jeered Rick.

_Hammer? Rick and I were messing with a biker called Hammer?_ Suddenly, A.J. didn't feel so lucky to have his brother anymore.

"So, did you get busted for being criminally stupid, or criminally ugly, or both?"

Seeing Hammer restrained and locked up in a squad car, Rick decided to have a little fun with him to get even. A.J. wanted none of it and tried to herd his brother toward his Dodge, but he didn't budge.

"I got picked up for parole violation 'cause your little sister squealed on me!" snarled the biker.

"My sis... brother did what? Who told you that?"

Hammer glowered at A.J. "Why don't you tell him, ratfink?"

Taken aback by Hammer's baseless accusation, A.J. shook his head in disbelief. "I don't know what you're…" He trailed off in mid-sentence. "Oh, no…" He whimpered.

Alarmed, Rick took a nervous glance at his brother.

"The statement…that I gave to the police…"

Rick frowned uncomprehendingly.

A.J. started talking fast as he always did when he was nervous. "After Larson got killed, I told the police how seemingly independent cases were intertwined—the armored car heist, Johnny McBride, breaking-in at my place, me getting kidnapped, the locker key in my pocket. Anyway, one of the police interviewers asked me why I had taken all the clothes I'd worn a few nights ago to the cleaner, and I _had_ to tell him what had happened at Blue Moon!"

A.J. had given detailed descriptions of Hammer's physical features including his imposing physique, gapped front teeth, crooked nose and intricate tattoo designs.

"A.J., it's not your fault that one of the detectives recognized Hammer in your statement," said Rick hoping to stop his brother's blabbering.

"You're gonna regret the day you were born—that goes for both of you," growled Hammer.

"So what're ya gonna do about it, huh? You're now in police custody; you can't touch us," taunted Rick.

"But they can."

Rick turned his eyes to the direction A.J. was pointing and saw the two biker-buddies of Hammer's fast approaching.

Swearing under his breath, he shoved his brother and yelled, "Run!"

The Simon brothers heard Hammer cackle as they started a mad dash to the Power Wagon. "You can run, but you can't hide!"

A.J. shot an angry look at his brother. "We're getting too old for this kind of thing, Rick!"

Inexplicably, Rick felt incredibly alive as a burst of adrenaline coursed through his body.

"Oh, yeah? Watch me!"

Fueled by sheer exuberance, Rick outran his younger brother and the trailing bikers and jumped into his truck, laughing and screaming like a kid on a rollercoaster.


End file.
